


Year Two

by Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked), palateens



Series: Ace Off [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Absent Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Bad Parenting, Borderline Personality Disorder, Cissexism, Depression, Disassociation, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nonbinary Character, Panic Attacks, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 02:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12718212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease, https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: 2010Kent stays up all night. Jack Zimmermann never gets called.





	1. Summer

2010

It’s the end of June, Kent’s watching the draft with his best friends. He laughs at himself, because a year ago he was doing this by himself. These people were nothing but names that were assigned to the same jersey colors as him. There was no guarantee that any of them would’ve made it this far. 

“We should’ve gone,” Perry complains from the other side of West’s couch. 

Kent squirms in his seat, not taking his eyes off the screen. Goose nudges him gently, putting his hand on Kent’s knee. Kent takes a deep breath, because Nathan’s telling him to stop thinking so loudly. 

“C’mon,” Kent mutters. “Call his name already, fuckers.” 

“Yeah, let’s take a road trip to LA just so we can watch a bunch of younger guys shake hands and do interviews even though they might not get signed,” Jeff says as he rolls his eyes. 

“We could use a fucking vacation,” Perry argues. 

“And what was the last month? A quick nap?” Jeff chirps. 

Kent shifts his gaze enough to see Perry punch Jeff lightly on the arm. “It wasn’t a fucking picnic, pinche cabr ó n.” 

“Didn’t tell ‘em, huh?” Kent says. 

“You know it.” Perry sinks further into the leather cushion. 

“Per, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Perry says. 

Jeff sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m already stressing the fuck out about training. I like your idea. We should do it. You name the trip, and we’ll do it.” 

Perry eyes him carefully. “Ok, let’s go.” 

“Right now?” Jeff asks incredulously.

“Yeah, vamos.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“No, I’m serious,” Perry says with a smirk. 

Jeff groans, throwing Perry into a headlock.

Kent doesn’t pay much attention to their squabbling after that. He’s just trying to breathe. Jack has to be there. He’ll get called up soon. Maybe it won’t be until the second round. Maybe he’ll get drafted when Kent’s not looking. Maybe it’ll be all over the news tomorrow and he won’t have to worry. Maybe—  

“Parse,” Goose says as he squeezes Kent’s shoulder firmly. “We’re turning this off.” 

Kent’s head snaps back to him. “What? No, fuck that. We haven’t even—”  

“The Las Vegas Aces select from the Everett Silvertips, Carter Harris,” their general manager announces on TV. 

Goose pats Kent’s back as he stands up. “C’mon, we’re going out.” 

“Where?” Kent, Perry, and Jeff ask. 

“Who knows?” Goose says with a simple shrug. “That’s the fun.”

“Oh no,” Jeff protests as he follows Goose toward the door. “We’re coming up with a fucking plan this time. No accidental kidnappings, no fortune tellers sending us to New Mexico, and no fucking puck bunnies.” 

Perry cackles, turning off the TV when it’s clear that Kent won’t move. Perry scoots closer to Kent, knocking their knees together. 

“You ok?” Perry asks. 

“I need to know, Per,” he mutters. “I gotta know.” 

Perry nods before taking Kent’s hand in theirs. “Tal vez no van al seleccionarlo. Tal vez Jack no está allá.” 

“Don’t fucking say that,” Kent protests.

“Quiero que estás lista para—” 

“You sound just like your mom right now, you know that?” he says. Because he can’t deal with them right now. Because he’s trying to keep himself together and Perry isn’t helping. This is why he wanted to watch alone. 

Perry glares at him. Kent tries not to flinch.  

“Diviértete con tu novio,” Perry says acerbically. “Llamarme cuando regresas a la realidad.” 

They slam the front door on their way out. Kent doesn’t make a move to follow them. He spent the last draft alone, and he could do it again. He’s waiting until Jack’s name gets called. He needs to see him. He needs to know that things are going to work out for them eventually. 

Kent stays up all night. 

Jack Zimmermann never gets called. 

_/.\\_ 

2008 

Jack’s parents are at some gala event—they tend to be around more during the season. It’s ironic, because they probably need more supervision over the offseason when they have nothing better to do than go to parties and give each other clumsy hand jobs. They’re watching the draft together, making chirps about some of the guys they played with and against last season. 

Kent stops paying attention after the tenth draftee. He’s just humming quietly as Jack talks about different players’ stats. 

Jack cuts himself off at some point, staring suspiciously at Kent, who’s using his lap as a headrest. “Are you listening?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Kent says. 

“What did I just say?”

“Makowski is strong but slow,” Kent recites. “His shooting average was decent but he’s weak in terms of fundamentals. You don’t see him getting drafted earlier than third round.” 

Jack snorts. 

“What? I’m listening,” 

“Barely,” Jack chirps. “When are you putting a shirt on?”

Kent smirks. “Never.” 

�

“Kent—” he sighs. 

“Jesus, Jack, I just got top surgery, let me live,” Kent says. 

“That was a month ago,” Jack argues. 

“Which is yesterday in no fleshy fat bags land,” he says. 

Jack chuckles. “Don’t call them that. You like boobs.”

“Sure,” Kent agrees. “Just not on me.” 

Jack rolls his eyes, bending over to peck Kent’s forehead. “You’re happy.” 

He preens. “Super fucking happy.”

“Good,” Jack says smiling softly. “You’re behind on conditioning. At least it’s for a good cause.” 

Kent squirms in his spot, sitting up. “Don’t remind me. I’m crawling out of my skin not being able to exercise.” 

“Wall’s right there, Kenny,” Jack says as he points. “You can still do things.”  

He groans, scrubbing his face as he laughs. “I can’t believe you’re putting off the draft.” 

Jack clears his throat. “I could use more training.” 

“Bullshit,” Kent says. “No offense, man, but you’re a living legend. All you have to do is tell a team ‘I want a contract’, and they’ll fucking sing.” 

He notices the way Jack’s eyes dull a little. Kent wants to ask what’s wrong, but he doesn’t know if it’s one of those ‘open a can of worms’ moments. 

“Can’t get drafted without you,” Jack says finally, with a slight twitch of his lips. “I’d get bored.” 

Kent smirks as he leans over to kiss his cheek. “Fucking sap.” 

He gets a kiss on the lips in reply. Then Jack’s kissing him hard. They’re making out before he knows what’s happening. Jack does this sometimes, deflects the conversation. Kent tries not to let it bother him. Everyone deals with shit differently.

Right?

_/.\\_ 

2010

The next night he and Perry have tentatively made up. They’re in a crowded bar on the Strip and Jeff and Goose are arguing about road trip plans. It sounds like they want to go to Montana or Idaho or somewhere north and somewhat colder. Someone offers to buy Kent a drink and he can see the protest on Perry’s lips, but he accepts anyway. He wanders off with this person. Maybe they take a shot together. Maybe they take six. 

Maybe Kent makes out with half a dozen girls because he can. Because they’re eager and he’s drunk. They keep offering him drinks, and for two seconds he’s on top of the world. He thinks he sees someone with dark hair and blue eyes staring at him from the corner of the bar. He turns to get a better look, but there’s no one there. 

He turns back to the girl who’s two inches taller than him in heels. She’s combing her fingers through his hair. Part of him wants to tell her to stop. But the larger, more significant part of his brain is screaming not to stop. Someone could want him. Someone he didn’t supremely fuck over already. He kisses harder because maybe that’ll shut his mind up. 

He takes another shot of tequila with this girl and her friends because maybe  _ that’ll shut his mind up. _ Jeff drags him away from that group when he starts shouting free drinks for everyone. 

“You don’t need to do that,” he vaguely remembers Jeff saying.

“‘Course I do, that’s why they love me,” Kent argues. 

He lets himself be led back home because he knows Jeff doesn’t have the patience for him running off tonight. Sometimes it’s cute. Tonight, Jeff’s stoney expression tells him that’s the worst idea possible. He flops on the couch, chugging the glass of water Perry hands him. 

“You can go if you want. I’m fine,” Kent says, careful not to slur his words. 

If he doesn’t keep it together enough, they’ll pay closer attention. They’ll start to notice things. That’s the last thing he needs. 

Perry shakes their head, maneuvering Kent so his head is pillowed in their lap.  He thinks Goose puts on  _ Khabi Khusi Kabhie Gham _ , and Jeff drags out the huge blanket Kent’s abuela knit for them last Christmas. 

Kent gets to lie there with his best friends. He can just not be ok for two seconds while Jeff rubs his shoulder and Perry murmurs about something Magdalena told them over the phone today. 

“Jack’s not coming back, is he?” he asks before his eyelids get too heavy. 

They don’t say anything. They don’t have to. 

He’s fucked, and he knows it. 

_/.\\_ 

2002 

Marcus has been with the Aces for two seasons. He’s one of their best players under 25, but he’s still on the third line. He thinks there are a lot of reasons—shitty, racist reasons—for that. But his dad keeps telling him to keep his chin up. 

“You gotta work a little harder to get just as far,” Marcus mutters Terrence’s mantra under his breath one day in March. They just lost to the fucking Yotes. He’s ready for an ice bath and watching some tape before bed. 

“Smith,” Coach Price shouts across the room. 

“Yea?” Marcus says. 

Price waves him over; Marcus complies, suppressing an eye roll for whatever conversation they could’ve had in front of everyone else. For a coach, Price isn’t as organized as he could be. But the made it into the first round of the playoffs last year. Maybe they could win next year. 

“Trade went through this morning—”

_ Please say Wings, please say you’re sending me to the Red Wings _ , Marcus thinks to himself.  

“We traded Lodish to Chicago for Calvin West,” Price says.

Trading his d-partner to the fucking Blackhawks was not what Marcus expected to hear. But then again, this team seemed determined to keep him on as their only Black player. The world is shitty. Islamophobia is on the rise. At least the Las Vegas Aces marginally value diversity. 

“Cool,” Marcus mutters. “He’s my new partner, or what?”

“For now,” Price says stiffly. “We might change around the lines. Might bump you up—”

_ Or send me to fucking Reno _ , Marcus stops himself from saying. 

Teams don’t just send a Calder winning player, their first and thus far best rookie, to their farm team unless they’ve screwed up. That, or they’re too fucking stupid to know how to manage a team. He eyes Price warily. They’re on a downswing at the moment. The trade deadline isn’t for another two weeks. Price seems to get jumpy, erratic, every time they start losing more than four games in a row. 

“So he’s coming in tomorrow?” Marcus asks instead. 

“Actually, he’s here right now,” Price waves someone over. 

It’s then that Marcus notices the burly redhead who was leaning against the locker room door frame. Marcus has never watched the Blackhawks too closely, but West looks like a fucking lumberjack. It makes him wonder if the prototypical white Canadian is just built like this. This guy has four inches and maybe ten pounds on him. West is clearly sizing him up, and it makes him feel oddly tiny.

Marcus offers a handshake that West accepts stiffly. 

“Nice to meet you,” Marcus grumbles. 

He can already tell this is going to be rough. This guy played in Chicago. He’s heard what they’re like in Chicago. The last thing he needs is a partner who treats him like shit. His mind is already trying to come up with contingency plans. Maybe he can negotiate a trade to Detroit at the end of the season. He just has to keep his stats up—   

“Likewise,” West says, voice gruff. 

“I’m sure you two will get along fine,” Price says as he claps their backs and heads back toward the assistant coaches. 

_ Yea, _ Marcus thinks,  _ this’ll be fun. _

_/.\\_ 

2010

Carter Benjamin Segura Harris taps furiously against his notebook. He erases a quarter note, considering a half step key change. He wishes his parents would let him gethis violin out of the trunk. 

“Working hard or hardly working?” his dad asks from the driver’s seats.

“Probably both,” he mutters. 

His mom leans over the console to look him straight in the eyes with a quirked brow. “What happened to ‘I’m taking it easy this summer’?”

“Same thing that happened to college,” Carter says. 

She nods. “Ah, so nothing.”

“Mom—” he begins to protest.   

She smiles, shaking her head. “The deal was I don’t bring it up. You never said—”

“Fine, whatever,” he says.

She puts her hand on his knee, rubbing it gently. “Carter, baby,” she says. 

Carter looks up. His mom’s giving him that awkward half smile that she only brings out for letting him down gently. He can see the gears turning in her head, trying to find a way to convince him to go home.

“Remember what you said when papi asked why you wanted to play hockey so badly?” 

He sighs. “Because it’s fun and I’m good at it. I’m the best at it.” 

“Now being the best doesn’t mean squat if you hate it or—you don’t even have to hate it. It could be too far from home, or too much traveling.”

“Journalists love tearing players apart,” his dad chimes in. 

“Or your teammates might not be nasty on the outside, but what if they don’t treat you well?” 

“Mom,” Carter says again. “I got drafted. I didn’t get signed yet.” 

“We know, and we’re still very proud of you—”

“Extremely proud, son,” his dad says. 

“But we’re just saying that...it’s a lot being in the national spotlight,” she explains. “All these kids going in at eighteen usually have big support systems.”

“I have a publicist, an agent, and two trainers, mom,” he reminds her. 

“But you’ve never been this far from home,” she insists. “Everett was right there. If you were tired or homesick, you were in your own bed by midnight.”

Carter stops himself from rolling his eyes. He loves his parents, but they’d had this conversation eight times... this week alone. He just wanted them to be happy for him. Not supportive or patient or “cautiously optimistic”, as his mom likes to say. He wants them to be jumping all over the fucking walls for him. He went sixteenth overall in the draft. He gets to play for a Western Conference team. He’s billeting with fucking Marcus Smith, for fuck’s sake.      

Why can’t they just be happy for him? 

“—If you feel any discomfort at all, we want you to be able to call us, ok?” he hears her say when he refocuses his attention. 

“Yes, mom,” he mutters.

His mom frowns. “Please take this seriously, Carter. I need you to promise me you’ll tell us if you want to go home.”

“What if they sign me?”

“That’s what lawyers are for,” his dad interjects. “Don’t you worry about that. We’re concerned about you and your well being.” 

Carter takes a deep breath. He counts backwards from ten slowly. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of going home, of having to live at home for a year while his friends go to college and he has to figure adulthood out. 

“Remember that talk we had about your anxiety pills.” His mom waggles her finger as she turns in her seat. “The last thing I want is the media writing you off like a thug.”

“Or worse,” his dad says, “a Jack Zimmermann copy cat.” 

“We don’t—you guys know that’s not fair, right?” Carter rubs his temple. “You say ‘don’t jump to conclusions’ but then you turn around and do just that.”

His mom chuckles soft. “Very astute, dear. You’re right, we don’t know what happened to that boy. But I know any parent worthy of their children would be beside themselves with worry.” 

“We want better for you, Carter,” his dad says. “It’s not about Zimmermann or any other hockey player. It’s about learning from their mistakes.”

“And being better,” his mom says. “You know better than anyone that you have to show up early and work twice as hard to get the right kind of attention in the public sphere.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Carter says.

“If you’re having a hard day and you don’t feel like talking to us,” she adds, “don’t hesitate to call grammy, gramps, mami, papi, or Darren, or I don’t care who. Anyone will be happy to take your call, ok?”

“We’re here,” his dad says. 

“Thank goodness,” his mom says. 

His dad parks in front of a beige stucco house with palm trees in the front yard. Carter steps out of the car, feeling the hundred degree heat beating against his forehead. Vegas already feels like a different world. 

“Carter, go ring the doorbell,” his mom says. “I’m sure this young man is expecting you.” 

“No need,” someone shouts from the entryway of the house. 

Carter remembers the first time he and his twin brother Darren sat down to watch a Schooners vs. Aces game. It was 2001, and to this day, he will never forget the way Marcus Smith smiled after he scored against the Schooners in the second period. That’s the moment he realized he wanted to be a hockey player. Ironically, he’d rather be playing for the Schooners, but living with his childhood hero works too.  

“You must be Marcus,” his mom says as she shakes his hand on the driveway. 

“Nice to meet you ma’am,” Marcus says with an easy smile. “Please feel free to call me Smithy.”

“Oh, right, hockey names. Well I’m Dawn Harris. That’s my husband, Emmanuel Segura—” she puts a hand on Carter’s shoulder. “And this is our son, Carter.”

Carter smiles shyly, offering a handshake. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Hey, pleasure’s all mine,” Marcus says. “We’re excited to have you here.” 

“We?” Dawn asks.

“The team,” he says simply. He points to Emmanuel, who’s unlocking the trunk. “Here, let me help with that.” 

Dawn’s lip twitches. “Now we only spoke briefly on the phone, but I forgot to ask—who all lives here?” 

Carter groans. “Mom, we’ve been here a minute.” 

“No it’s fine,” Smithy assures them both. “My parents were worried, too, when I first moved out here. The third line defensemen billet with me, too. Good kids, they’re only a year older than Carter.” 

“My, you must have a full house, then,” Dawn says. 

“There’s still enough room for a couple more players,” he says. “C’mon, I’ll show you around”  

Smithy shows them around the house, letting Carter pick one of the free bedrooms as they go. Goose is playing video games while Swoops watches tape on his laptop next to him. They seem amicable enough. 

“What well behaved young men,” Dawn comments. 

“That’s because they just came back from a road trip,” Smithy says. “They’ve been awfully quiet since last night. Watch this. Hey Goose, how was it?”

“Jeff wussed out,” Goose mutters. 

Jeff looks up from his laptop. “You said not to look.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t listen.”

“You don’t say don’t look when someone’s coming at you with a giant needle!” 

“There you go,” Smithy says with a smirk. “Normal teenagers almost making stupid decisions.” 

“He still got the tat, Smithy,” Goose says, “it’s just the line work right now.” 

Emmanuel laughs from behind them. “Too bad your brother couldn’t make it. He’d be right at home here.” 

Carter nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, real shame.” 

_/.\\_ 

Carter knocks on the frame of Darren’s door on his way out of the house. It’s sixteen hours to Vegas and his new life as an NHL player. Darren’s playing Grand Theft Auto IV on his Playstation 3. 

“We’re leaving in five,” Carter says. 

“Cool,” Darren says gruffly. 

“Last chance to come along.”

“No thanks,” he says. “Have fun in Vegas.” 

“God fucking dammit, Darren,” Carter hisses. “Can we just talk like fucking adults for one minute?” 

Darren glances away from the TV screen to give Carter a scathing glare. “So I’m the child now?” 

“That’s not what I—”

“Man, just get fucking out of here,” Darren says, dropping his controller to cross his arms. “I’ll call you, or whatever, when this blows over. Until then, I don’t want to hear your fucking voice.”   

Carter closes his eyes, sighing. “Fine, whatever. Good luck with college, or whatever.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Darren says curtly.

Carter trudges slowly out of Darren’s room. They haven’t talked in a week or so. He isn’t sure they’ve ever gone this long without resolving an argument. Just as well, he thinks. He’s the one who wanted his own identity. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life being part of a package deal. He’s just going to have to get used to being all by himself, without his twin. 

_/.\\_ 

“I’m bored,” Kent says to Perry as they share the hammock in West’s backyard. 

“West said he needs to mow the lawn today,” Perry suggests. 

It’s mid July. Perry feels an itch under their skin. They can’t tell if it’s because they’re stuck in a rut or because at this point in the summer they normally have a job that’s kicking their ass enough for them not to care how busy and loud it is at home. El Paso is loud, ruckus, and brimming with expectations. Compared to listening to their family rant and rave about how their hockey career is going, Las Vegas is a cake walk. It’s quiet even. 

Perry chuckles to theirself. They’d gotten too comfortable in Vegas. It’s their new normal. It’s comfortable in a way that Texas has never been. They can’t tell if it’s because Vegas is liberal in the loosest definition possible, or whether it’s the freedom of knowing they don’t have to have anything figured out here. They can just be a dumb teenager who makes self indulgent mistakes. 

“You’re such a parent sometimes,” Kent says as he rolls over, burying his face in their shoulder. “Let’s do something fun, spontaneous.”

“Like what?” 

“You should get your ears pierced,” he says. 

Perry balks at him. “Why is your answer to boredom always needles?”

“It is not,” Kent insists. 

“Nathan’s birthday, tattoos, getting lost in Tacoma, a tongue piercing,” Perry recounts. “You know, at this rate you should just quit hockey and work at Hot Topic.” 

Kent shifts just enough to prop himself up on his elbow, half glaring at Perry. “Don’t tempt me.” 

They shrug. “Just saying. Besides, you said my ears. I didn’t hear jackshit about yours.”

“Uh, look closely Per,” Kent says as he points to his ears. “Already fucking pierced.”

“I can’t tell if you have those because your mom made you or you have a pain kink,” Perry says. 

“Both and rude,” Kent says. “You should get them pierced just for chirping me like that.” 

“Is this you trying to convince me? It’s pretty fucking weak,” they say.

Kent rolls his eyes. “In exchange for you doing something that A) fucks with binary expression and B) would look totally fucking hot on you, I will—get my bellybutton pierced.”  

Perry erupts in laughter. “I can’t call bullshit on that, you’d totally do it.” 

“I will, watch me,” he swears. 

“Uh, no,” Perry says. “Get something else and we have a deal.” 

He frowns. “Why not?” 

They snort, patting him on the thigh. “C’mon get another tattoo. It’ll hurt less in the long run.” 

“Rude,” Kent says again as he falls out of the hammock. “I’m gonna get the biggest tattoo I can think of.” 

“Whatever you say,” Perry says indulgently. 

It’s nice to have these quiet afternoons before the season starts. For one minute, they can pretend to be normal teenagers on summer break instead of professional hockey players who have to go back to pretending for the rest of the world that they’re straight, cis, or have any of aspect of their lives figured out. 

Perry slips on their sandals, ignoring this nagging in the back of their mind. Kent hasn’t had much of a break so far. He’s trying too hard to pretend he’s ok. He’s been sleeping and eating less. He goes out too often for anyone’s liking. Smithy and West keep corralling him to stay in and watch tv with them. But that only does so much, and Perry can tell by the look in his eye that Kent’s getting more restless and hopeless. 

Something’s going to give. Perry sighs. They just wished they knew what.

_/.\\_ 

2006 

Nathan isn’t the kind of guy to sneak out late at night. His parents set a clear standard for him and Nehal. As long as they try their best in school and communicate with their parents, they can pretty much do whatever they want. So it’s a surprise to him when one of his games runs long and he ends up at a party without telling them. He doesn’t drink because knows they’ll smell the alcohol on him a mile away. Despite their seemingly lax parenting style, he knows not to betray their trust. 

He goes home around midnight. He decides for the hell of it to sneak in through the basement window. If he gets caught, he can pretend he fell asleep down there. He creeps slowly up the stairs, shifting his weight slowly so the floorboards don’t creak. Before he can open the door to the basement, he hears shouting. 

“I can’t believe you!” Nehal shouts. 

“Child, be reasonable,” their mother says. “What you’re asking from us is so much.” 

“I’m not asking for anything,” Nehal says. “I’m telling you I’m gay. I have a girlfriend.” 

“We’re trying, Nehal,” their father says. “You have to understand—”  

“You should be happy for me,” she snaps. 

“We’re…” his father clears his throat. “We understand this is important to you.” 

“Do you?” she asks.

“Yes,” their father says, clearing his throat loudly. “But perhaps in a few years—”

“It’s not a phase,” Nehal says. 

“You’re so young, you can’t know that,” their mother says. 

“I’m leaving,” she declares. “Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and be the good, straight medical student you always wanted me to be.” 

Nathan sits down on the staircase. He doesn’t move for an hour or more. His sister came out to their parents, but didn’t even think about talking to him. Or maybe she had, he’s the one who didn’t come home on time. He curls into himself. 

In years to come, Nathan would make three conclusions about that day. Coming out isn’t about making an escape plan just in case—it’s messy and awkward and rarely goes well. He’d never come out to his parents. He never wants to forgive them for making Nehal feel like less of a person. 

_/.\\_ 

2010

There’s a big group of people at West’s house for a barbecue. It’s August 3rd. Kent’s sitting in a lawn chair, picking at the coleslaw and burger on his paper plate. Perry and Carter have been taking turns shoving each other into the pool. Most of the older guys that are around are not as much of douchebags as they could be. 

The ones who tend to congregate around West slip up and say stupid homophobic shit sometimes. But Smithy or West shoot them a single look and they shut up for a while. It’s only a handful of guys, but Kent thinks that’s better than nothing. 

Kent feels his maple leaf tattoo burning a figurative hole through the back of his shoulder. He can’t remember what he was doing this time last year. He can barely remember what he did last week. Sometimes it pisses him off how shitty his memory’s gotten since the draft. Bits and pieces of conversation trickle into his mind. 

Goose at one point says, “What I wouldn’t give for an iced capp right now.” 

Kent laughs.

_ Suddenly, Jack ordering one three summers ago at Niagara Falls.  _

_ “Here, try some,” Jack says, holding out his cup for Kent. _

_ He pushes it away. “It’s not a frappuccino.” _

_ “So?” _

_ “So fuck off,” Kent says. “It’s gross.” _

_ “It’s coffee,” Jack reiterates.  _

_ “I hate coffee,” he reminds Jack. “Starbucks drowns it in enough sugar to hide the nasty taste.”  _

_ Jack scrunches his nose. “That’s disgusting.” _

_ “You’re half American, pal,” he reminds Jack. “You’ve got no room to talk.”  _

_ Jack rolls his eyes, taking a long sip of his drink. “You’ll get thirsty.”  _

_ “That’s what you’re here for,” Kent chirps.  _

_ He smirks, wrapping an arm around Kent’s waist. “Really?” he murmurs against Kent’s cheek.  _

_ His cold breath makes Kent shiver.  _

_ “Yeah, you’re the responsible one, remember?” Kent chirps. “Have to make sure I don’t die of dehydration or something.”  _

_ “Let’s see what we can do about that,” Jack says in a low tone.  _

_ He kisses Kent roughly. They’re still relatively new at this, all of it. Their tongues are sloppy and slow. But Kent swirls his tongue in Jack’s mouth, and it’s feels right, normal.  _

_ “How was that?” Jack asks with a tiny smirk when they pull apart. _

_ “Extremely watered down, I liked it,” he admits. _

_ “Good,” Jack says softly. “Guess you’ll have to drink your coffee like that from now on.” _

_ “Gross.” He laughs into Jack’s chest. He feels warm and safe here.  _

“Kent!” Jeff’s voice calls from the distance. 

He blinks, and it takes him a second for his vision to refocus from the plate he’s been staring at for a while. He’s not sure when colors started blurring together and his mind just went somewhere else. 

“Yeah?” He shouts back, slowly realizing that it’s sunset. 

“We’re going out,” Jeff says. 

“Right now?”

“Yeah, like we said yesterday,” he says with a huff. Jeff waves Kent over. “C’mon.” 

Kent doesn’t remember more than a few things about yesterday. He woke up at five AM to run and go train. He ate a breakfast burrito at two because Smithy shoved it into his hands. He fell asleep on the couch ten minutes later and was mostly unconscious the rest of the day. He thinks he watched something with Jeff, but he mainly just stared bleary eyed at the screen.  

“Ok,” he says as he stands up. 

He looks at his food, barely touched. He dumps it out in the trashcan West set on the deck for the barbecue. He’ll eat later. Probably. 

_/.\\_ 

The end of July is a slow period at the practice facility. Some of the guys trickle in and out, depending on their family situations. But for the most part, people tend to relocate over the summer and train remotely. At least, that’s usually the case. Trish said she and Josh would drive out in August to see Jeff. But he has no plans to go back to Princeton any time soon. His parents (parents, that was such a convoluted concept for him at this point) are on sabbatical somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Even if he wanted to go back to his childhood home, it would be dark and collecting dust. Not exactly nostalgic, warm and brimming with quaint, happy memories. Jeff works with his personal trainer a few hours every day. If he had free time, he’d want to go hiking. Unfortunately, there isn’t much time to make sense of the line configurations for the new season. Price was a hack at best and didn’t watch his tape nearly enough. 

Jeff’s sitting in the theatre in the Aces’ training facility. He’s been watching the Penguins’ offensive for three hours now. He’s written down a lot about their strategies, playing styles, and general chemistry. He thinks about moving onto the Red Wings after he’s finished watching this game. 

“Working hard or hardly working?” Carter asks as he knocks on the door.

“Hopefully the first one,” Jeff mumbles. He waves Carter over. “What’s up?” 

“There’s like, no one here, and there’s only so many burpees I can do by myself before I go insane,” Carter jokes. 

Jeff nods in understanding. “Want someone to spot you?” 

“Sure,” Carter says before clearing his throat. “But, uh, I wanted to ask you something first.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Do you—like, do we have a problem?”

Jeff looks away from the screen for the first time since Carter walked in. “What? Why?”

“I’ve been here a month, and we’ve talked maybe twice. I can’t tell if it’s you or it’s me.”

Jeff scrubs his face. “No, fuck, that’s my fault. Sorry, I’ve been in here day and night trying to figure out a new strategy for next season.” 

Carter frowns. “No offense, but, isn’t that the coach’s job?”

“Have you met Price?”

“K-Kinda?” 

“Point exactly,” Jeff says as he shakes his head. “Listen, from the five minutes I’ve listened to you talk, you’re a nice guy. Sorry I’ve been coming off like a dick.” 

Carter smirks. “It’s not ‘fine’ or whatever. But I get you.” 

“Thanks,” Jeff says with a relaxed grin. “I was serious about spotting. I’ve been cooped up here for hours.”

“Let's do it.” Carter stands up, assessing Jeff. “And, no offense, man, but I figured it was impossible to look as pasty as you do in Vegas.”

Jeff chuckles. “None taken.”       

_/.\\_  

2002 

“Dad, he’s just so—” Marcus sighs, pacing around his bedroom in his house in the suburbs of Vegas. 

It’s the end of the regular season. They barely, just barely, nabbed a wildcard slot. He’s calling his dad like he does every Thursday. Terrence heads Detroit’s Water and Sewage Department, which means he’s on call more weekends than not. It’s fine, Marcus thinks. It gave him and Victor bonding time while he was growing up. They probably wouldn’t be that close as stepfather and stepson (or whatever it’s called when his father’s partner’s been co-parenting him since he was eight). 

Marcus tries again. “It’s like, one minute we’re playing together and well. Then the next he has to open his fucking mouth.” 

Terrence hums. “You know, for complaining a lot about what he says, you haven’t told me much about what he  _ says _ .” 

“Typical heteronormative locker room talk,” he says. “He spots girls like they’re prey. It’s fucking disgusting. He thinks he’s the hottest shit to ever grace God’s green earth. It’s infuriating.” 

“How cute is this boy?”

Marcus gapes. “Dad, no, ew. He’s, like, straight and white.” 

“No, I hadn’t noticed,” Terrence chirps. 

“Dad, be serious,” Marcus says. 

“I am,” he replies. “You’ve talked about this boy more than you’ve complained about your entire team put together. What makes him different?” 

Marcus sighs, thinking. 

“His smile,” he says begrudgingly. “Sometimes there’s a celly or a good practice, and he’ll look at me like he’s hoping he got my attention.” 

Terrence whistles. “Son, either he’s got it bad or you’ve got it really bad.” 

“I know,” he mutters. He feels like tearing his hair out. “Never fall for a straight boy, right?” 

“Never fall for a six foot four Canadian three years your senior,” Terrence clarifies jokingly. 

“What am I gonna do?”

“For now, nothing, you’ve got the playoffs to think about.” 

Marcus shuts his eyes tightly. “And after?” 

“You come home, take a break from hockey culture,” he explains, as if it’s easier than walking. “We’ll go fishing like we did last year. Your Aunt Sheryl needs help babysitting the twins.” 

“Ok,” Marcus agrees. “So I’m completely ignoring any feelings I have for him until they just die away because he’s straight and an asshole—”

“And you deserve better,” Terrence chimes in. 

“And I deserve better,” Marcus agrees. “I gotta go. Team bonding or something.”

Terrence chuckles, and it makes him miss the smell of his cologne and how soft his sweaters feel against his skin when it’s winter in Michigan and they’ve dragged Victor out skating. As much as he wants to hold the Cup over his head, he wants to be home more. 

“Take care, sweetheart,” Terrence says. “Love you.”

“Thanks, love you too,” Marcus says absently as he looks for his car keys. “Say hi to Victor for me.” 

“I always do,” Terrence says before hanging up. 

Marcus ignores the ache in his chest from being so far from his family for so long. He can’t wait to get traded. His contract isn’t over for another two years, so at the very latest he’ll leave then. He’s getting out of this desert, one way or another. 

_/.\\_ 

2010

Jeff stays up until 3am watching tape in the living room with the volume on low. Smithy leveled him a glare when he and West went to bed. He’s sure he’ll be skating suicides in the morning because of this, but he doesn’t care. 

Kent comes trudging down the stairs around twelve thirty. He grabs a glass of water and some leftover meatloaf from dinner that he puts into the microwave. He sits down next to Jeff, putting his head on Jeff’s shoulder. 

“What’s so interesting about the Aeros?” Kent asks. 

“Their goals,” Jeff tells him. “Their plays take four people, but they have a really high success rate.”

Kent hums. “So why didn’t they get into the playoffs this year?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he says. 

He hears Kent laugh quietly. Jeff frowns. “What?” 

“We’re gonna win the Cup this year,” he declares. “And it’s gonna be because of you.”

Jeff smirks. “You think?” 

“Fuck, yeah,” he says confidently. “You’re a smart guy.”

“Thanks, Kenny,” he says softly. 

Kent swallows thickly. “‘Course, Zimms.”

Jeff doesn’t correct him. Kent’s out cold five minutes later. Jeff keeps plugging away, finding patterns in the Aeros offense and defense. 

“Dad always wanted me to be an analyst,” he murmurs mirthlessly. 

Maybe when he’s a Stanley Cup champ, he’ll have something to write home about. 

_/.\\_ 

It’s a Saturday night, the second week of August. Kent may or may not have snuck out of West’s house by himself to go to a concert. He’d considered asking Jeff if he wanted to come with, but all Jeff ever wanted to do lately was watching fucking tape. Which is fine. But Kent is ready to crawl out of his skin. 

Goose mentioned a punk show in a house on the other side of town. Kent figured they wouldn’t be carding, but he brought his fake just in case. What good is an NHL salary if he can’t do anything interesting during the offseason? 

This absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jack’s birthday was last week. Or that he knows he can’t get shit faced during the season, so he might as well. He’s ignoring the fact that a year ago the idea of alcohol made him want to puke. It still makes him sick. The only difference now is that he doesn’t care what it does to him. It already ruined Jack, ruined them. 

What’s one more casualty? He doesn’t care. 

The house in question isn’t as open as the places Kent’s seen around Vegas. He pays at the door, getting a cheap paper wristband for reentry. The doorman reeked of pot and put Kent’s wristband on too tightly. He wrings his hand as he follows the crowd downstairs. 

It’s a huge basement. It’s completely unfinished, but Kent figures that’s for the best. He buys three shots of whatever tequila they have and a cup of beer to drown the taste out. He takes them in rapid succession. A few people cheer behind him. 

Music starts maybe five minutes later. Kent finds a spot in the middle of the crowd where he’s most likely to get shoved around a lot. Because if it weren’t enough that he’s already four drinks in, he wants to feel like complete shit. Maybe that way he can get the taste of Jack out of his mouth. 

There’s three bands playing that night, so in between the first and second set, Kent goes back to grab another drink (or two). He chugs his second beer but nurses his third, practically spilling it on himself when someone bumps into him from behind. 

“What the fuck,” Kent gripes as he turns around. 

He almost runs into this asshole (again) before he gets a good look at him. It’s Goose. Of course it is. 

“What are you doing here?” Goose and Kent ask simultaneously. 

“There’s music, booze, and hot people.” Kent shakes his solo cup in front of Goose so hard it sloshes onto Kent’s hand. 

“Same, I guess,” Goose says. “You alone?”

“Yeah, you?” 

“Per offered to babysit West’s niece,” he explains. “Swoops still in a tape coma?”

Kent rolls his eyes. “You know it.” 

“We gonna pretend like we never saw each other or—”

“Up to you,” Kent says, half drunk and licking his lips. “I don’t care.”

Goose smirks. “C’mon, next set starts soon.” 

He drags Kent even closer to the stage. It’s louder. But they’re both chugging beer, and it doesn’t really matter if they can hear each other. They’re content to just enjoy each other’s company.  

When Kent gets drunk, he gets handsy. His vision gets a little blurred and he wants nothing more to reach out and hold Jack’s hand like they used to in crowded concerts. He tries to remember what it was like watching Arcade Fire play live. 

The venue reeked of alcohol and the music was so loud it masked the beating of his heart as it leapt out of of his chest whenever Jack would put his hand on Kent’s hip. It was worth it to be able to kiss anonymously in a crowd of hundreds. He thinks he feels the ghost of Jack’s love tracing its way down his neck. 

He feels arms wrap around his waist, and his body responds with muscle memory. He’s kissing back furiously. The hands travel to his ass, picking him up like he weighs nothing. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Goose murmurs into his ear clear as day.

“Fuck yeah,” he says. 

“Let’s get a cab. Mine or yours?”

“Mine,” Kent says as Goose puts him back on the floor. 

He grabs Kent’s hand, leading him upstairs. Kent thinks they get a cab fairly quickly. He can’t tell with how the alcohol is hitting his system. He hasn’t been this drunk in a while. He shoves his tongue further down Nathan’s throat. 

“You taste like whiskey,” Kent murmurs into his lips. 

“How much tequila did you have?” Nathan chirps in reply. 

“Not enough, you?”

“Same.” 

Jeff doesn’t notice them when they get back. They go back to Kent’s bedroom and Nathan goes down on him with incredible finesse. 

“Are you sure you’re drunk?” Kent muses outloud.

Nathan snorts, lifting his head up to meet Kent’s incredulous gaze. “You’re still talking, so I’m not doing it right.”

“So…”

“So I’m really fucking drunk,” he says before shoving his tongue back into Kent. 

Maybe Nathan makes Kent orgasm multiple times. Maybe Kent shouts Jack’s name at some point. Maybe they don’t talk about any of their problems. Maybe they wake up hungover the next morning, not in love and definitely not in like. 

The sunrise is too bright for either of them, and apparently Fish is over, because his workout playlist is blasting through the house’s sound system. It’s barely six AM, but Vegas is already forcing them out of their self indulgent bender. 

Kent looks at Nathan and thinks he’s not the Canadian he wished he’d woken up next to. But then again, Kent’s probably not the Mexican Nathan wanted, for that matter. 

Nathan leans over Kent, smirking sadly. Kent smiles in kind. Sometimes, friends hook up because they’re drunk on alcohol and their own self pity. Sometimes, they kiss the next morning because it hurts less knowing someone else understands them. 

But sometimes, they keep kissing. Because they can. 

_/.\\_ 

Perry’s making chilaquiles in Smithy’s kitchen. Their kitchen? Carter has never really gotten used to the idea of making himself at home in billet houses. But Smithy’s place feels different. The entire place permeates safety and belonging. Maybe it’s just that Carter’s never lived somewhere where the entire household is queer. That’s new. 

He’d officially signed with the Aces the week before. That didn’t mean he was in the clear about playing this year. Regardless, if he was going to be here for a while, he figured it was time to get some things straight. 

“Hey Perry?” he says as Perry fries tortillas. 

“Que honda?” 

Carter grimaces. “You know my Spanish is elementary level at best, right?”

Perry quirks a brow. “Que honda means what’s up?” 

“Oh, um,” he stammers, “so... awkward question.”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes the other guys call you they instead of he—  

“Uh huh,” Perry hums. 

“And I’m just a little confused, but we’re always around other people, so I’d feel shitty if it was something private that other people aren’t supposed to know, you know?”

Perry nods. “Yeah, no worries. Um, do you mind shredding chicken while we talk?”

“Sure,” he says as Perry hands him a bowl with three chicken breasts in it. 

“So I’m nonbinary?” Perry says finally. 

“Is that a question?”

Perry laughs. “Sorry, I’m still new to this whole ‘come out about your gender identity’ thing.”

“It’s cool,” he assures Perry. “You don’t have to share anything with me—”

“But I want to,” Perry insists. “You’re a good guy, Carter.” 

The sentiment fills him with relief he didn’t know he needed. “Thanks.”

Perry sighs. “You’re bi, right?”

“Yeah.” 

“Did you ever have that crisis where you were like ‘I can’t be gay because I like women, but I can’t be straight because I like men?’”

“All the time,” Carter admits with a sigh.“It never ends, I fucking swear.”

“Ok imagine that—but for gender. ‘Either/or’ doesn’t fit me.”

“Dumb question—”

“Shoot,” Perry says. 

“Are you like, both or neither?” 

“Something in between I think. Sometimes a little more one than the other.” 

“Should I call you they?”

“Maybe not in public,” Perry says. “People are…”

“Shitty,” Carter supplies.

They smirk. “Exactly.”

“So do like, male pronouns bother you?” 

“Um—”

“Because if they do, I’ll just avoid them all together,” he says quickly. 

Perry smiles, bumping shoulders with Carter lightly. “They’re ok. They’re just not my favorite.” They shrug. “If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.” 

“Ok,” he says slowly, taking everything in. “Thanks for telling me all of this.”

“Thanks for asking,” Perry says honestly. “I’m glad you’re on the team.”

For the first time since he didn’t get drafted by the Schooners, Carter felt so too.       


	2. Fall

Preseason comes and goes. Everyone’s back from offseason ready to kill it. Unfortunately for Perry, that means the end of their bubble until next year. Off season means not every dickbag on the team is around. It means they can wear or say basically whatever they want. They took off their six earrings this morning, knowing that it’s going to be a while before they can wear any of them again. Last night they scrubbed their black nail polish off despite Smithy assuring them that no one would notice. 

Even if they didn’t, Perry doesn’t want another thing to worry about. 

They hate pretending like the norm is even remotely ok. Hockey culture is a disease no one’s found a cure for yet. They’re only immune because they’re often on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit. It’d be nice to show up to practice wearing whatever the fuck they want for once. It feels like hiding, lying, and fitting in in the worst way possible. It makes Perry uncomfortable to say the least.

They get ready for practice with a little bit of resignation. The chirping has already started. Some of the assholes here and there were already talking about the pussy they claimed in the off season. Some of the older guys just roll their eyes, and others grin with nostalgia. Perry tries to conceal a shiver at how quickly their conversations devolve into homophobia. 

They notice the way Carter’s grip gets a little tighter as he tapes his stick. Goose is mumbling something under his breath next to Perry. Across the room, Kent looks too zoned out to be angry. He’s been doing that for a month now. Perry tries to get his attention when they can, but sometimes that’s impossible. Jeff is keeping his head down, but Perry can’t tell if that’s because he’s caught up in strategizing or just not interested in anything outside of ice time. 

“Perry,” Fish says from across the room. 

They blink a few times. “Huh, yeah?”

“It feels good to be back, yeah?” he says. 

“Definitely,” they agree. 

“We’ll be carrying the Cup before you know it. Just wait and see.” 

Fish is the kind of guy who watches patiently until he’s needed. He’s kind and empathetic. It’s what makes him such a good goalie. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” 

They get up, hugging Fish tightly when they get to his stall. 

“We got this, alright? We’ll even destroy the Penguins.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Perry says. 

Maybe being back wasn’t all bad. 

_/.\\_ 

2002 

They get as far as the second round. Marcus goes home, and enjoys his down time while training as much as possible. He tries to get traded, but of course he gets shot down. He quietly looks for a new agent. This isn’t the first time his current one hasn’t given a flying fuck what he thinks. 

He gets back at the beginning of preseason, delaying his return for as long as possible. He’s had months to not think about West. He hasn’t, really. Marcus has been living his own life, being content not to get tangled up in West’s bullshit. 

So of course, the first day of practice as a full team, West has to make his life difficult. 

There’s a large group of fans there to watch practice. Of course Marcus pokes his head out afterwards to see if anyone wants an autograph. There’s at least eight people there to see him, and it does his pride a little good. He takes some photos and hands out some hugs to some younger fans. West and a few other guys make an entrance after him. He tries to not roll his eyes at how cocky West’s smile is. He looks away before West can catch him staring. 

Marcus overhears West chirping Mazer as everyone’s trickling back to their cars. 

“Five bucks says I could bang all five of ‘em in two days,” West says loudly.

“No fucking way,” Mazer protests. “You don’t got the game for that, asswipe.”

“Wanna make this more interesting?” West asks. 

“You’re fucking on,” Mazer claps his back.

“Fifty says he can’t,” Skenzy shouts. 

“Five hundred if you don’t try,” Marcus says without thinking. 

West stares at him incredulously. Marcus doesn’t notice until he’s unlocking his car that they’re all still staring at him. He shrugs. 

“You guys couldn’t last one week without treating some girls like they’re chew toys. Maybe bet on that instead, it’s more of a challenge,” he huffs before slamming his car door shut. 

He goes home and watches his DVD copy of season 2 of  _ Living Single  _ while he heats up leftover lasagna. There’s a knock on his door as he’s taking the lasagna out of the oven. 

“Coming,” he shouts. 

He checks the peephole, and for some reason West is standing on the other side of the door. 

“What do you want?” 

“Can we talk?” West asks. 

“About what?” 

“What you said.” 

Marcus sighs, unlocking the door and only opening it enough to stick his head out. “I’ve said a lot of things. You might wanna specify.” 

“What you said about treating girls like chew toys,” he says. 

Marcus glares, because he doesn’t want an argument tonight. But Kim Coles’ voice is booming over his surround sound system, and his food is getting colder every minute he’s staring at West. 

“Fine,” Marcus relents. “Come on in.” 

He closes the door behind West, instructing him to take his shoes off by the mat. 

“Nice place,” West says. 

“Thanks,” Marcus says.

“Mine’s bigger,” West counters. 

“Of course it is,” he mutters as he cuts himself a slice of lasagna. 

“I’m just saying—”

“Look, I’m having dinner right now.” Marcus gestures bluntly at the plate in his hand. “Either hand me another plate or go sit down.” 

West nods, grabbing a plate out of the open cabinet, shutting it afterward. 

“I wasn’t—nevermind,” Marcus says. 

“Sorry,” West says, moving to reopen the cabinet. 

“No, don’t,” Marcus says with a sigh. “Thanks for closing it.” 

They sit down awkwardly. West asks a few questions about  _ Living Single _ that Marcus is thankful to have answers for. They’re not talking about what he’s doing here. Which, normally should bother Marcus. But this is  _ nice _ , he hesitates to think. Somehow West offers to wash dishes, and Marcus is content to sit on the counter watching him. West hums fucking Shania Twain. 

“You’re a country boy, huh,” he finds himself saying. 

West chuckles, “Yeah, I guess.” 

Marcus thinks about how easy it would be to chirp him to the point of blushing. He thinks about soft his cheeks look in contrast to his beard. He thinks he could still taste some lasagna on West’s lips if he tried hard enough. He pulls himself away from those thoughts because he can’t. He can’t keep playing with his feelings for a straight boy. 

“What are you doing here?” Marcus asks instead. He doesn’t know who he’s referring to. 

West, thankfully, answers. “I don’t get what your problem is. We’re a good team. We play well together.”

“Your point?”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Hate—who said I hate you?”

“That wasn’t the first time you’ve given me shit about fucking puck bunnies,” West says. “I get if you’re like, shy or whatever, but you don’t have to be jealous.”

Marcus stares at him before bursting out into laughter. “Wow, you have no idea what’s going on, do you?”

West glares. “Enlighten me.”

“First of all, fuck ‘we’re a good team’.  _ We  _ don’t play well together. We play well enough to make up for the fact that we’re horrible together,” he says. 

“We’ve got chemistry—”

“On the ice, and nowhere else,” he interrupts. “Second, I’m not jealous, you delusional mountain man. Me saying ‘treat women like people’ has nothing to do with me and  _ everything _ to do with you.”       

“It’s nothing personal,” West says, “that’s just how we are.”

“Who? Canadians?”

“Hockey players,” West says. 

“Maybe that’s what it’s like when you grow up being the big man on campus,” Marcus says, “but it’s not like that down here. Hockey means shit when football, basketball, and baseball are more popular.” 

West shrugs. 

Marcus keeps going. “Even if hockey was the biggest sport ever, how does that give you the fucking right to treat other human beings like they’re less than you? Like they only serve to please you? That’s messed up.” 

West grunts frustratedly. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” Marcus says. “Go be better.” 

_/.\\_ 

2010

Perry has a top 40s pandora channel blasting from their laptop as they tear through their closet. Sometimes dysphoria doesn’t come in the form of feeling mildly uncomfortable with their height or wanting to correct interviewers on their pronouns. Sometimes it’s the realization that they just want to try something different, something a little more feminine. Because what’s the point of having an NHL contract if they can’t find clothing that works for them? 

Kent knocks on their bedroom door.

“Hey,” Kent says. 

“Hey, how’re you?”

Kent ignores their question. Instead, he inspects the disaster zone that was once Perry’s bed. “No offense babe, but you know how to put on clothing, right?”

Perry stops theirself from grinning at Kent’s chirp. “Fuck off, Kent.”

“Ouch, fucking harsh, Per,” he says, feigning offense. “What’re you up to anyway? Redecorating?”

“You’re impossible,” Perry says humorlessly. “I just... fuck. I don’t know.” 

“Well c’mon then,” Kent says as he falls perpendicularly onto a pile of clothing on the bed. “Join me in this pigsty.” 

Perry rolls their eyes, complying anyway. “This is really uncomfortable,” they tell Kent as they roll to face him. 

“That’s because you’re too fucking tall,” he chirps.

“You’re really fucking short.”

“I’m average height, asscunt,” Kent protests. 

Perry smirks triumphantly. 

“C’mon, Per, what’s up?”

They shrugs nonchalantly. “I just saw someone wearing a cute outfit today and it made me feel self-conscious.”

“Self-conscious how?” 

“‘Why can’t I have that?’ self-conscious,” Perry explains.

Kent squints. “Pretty sure that’s envy. But, whatever, what were they wearing?”

“Pencil skirt and a button down shirt,” they mumble.

“The PR lady?”

“Yeah…”

“Damn,” Kent says appreciatively. “You’d look awesome in that, y’know?”

“You suck at flattery,” they chirp. 

“I’m serious, Per,” he insists. “C’mon, let's go shopping.” 

“Isn’t that weird?” Perry asks. “Two ‘dudes’ going shopping for women’s clothing?”

“Ok first, clothing being gendered is bullshit so get that out of your head,” he says as he holds up a finger. “Second, no worries, that’s what the internet's for.”

“Online shopping,” Perry says incredulously. 

“Fuck yeah,” Kent says excitedly. “It’s like, every trans person’s sanctuary. Y’know, if you avoid the transphobic corners.”

Perry snorts.

“Here, I’ll show you how to measure yourself,” he offers. “Knowing your measurements is like — life changing.” 

They both sit up, and Perry grabs their laptop as Kent shoves a pile of clothing off the bed. 

“So, uh, social dysphoria aside, how’s your day?” He asks. 

Perry grins, slinging an arm around Kent’s shoulder after they set their laptop down. 

“It’s a lot better now that you’re here,” they admit. 

_/.\\_ 

Nathan decides that maybe today should be different. Because at some point he feels guilty going to Perry to talk or Kent to fuck. They’d been doing a lot of that lately. Beyond “are you ok” or “do you want me to stop”, they don’t talk about why they kept doing this. Kent doesn’t love him and Nathan didn’t want him to. It’s a good setup for now. 

But today, he decides that it’s been too long since he and Swoops talked about something that isn’t hockey. Swoops went straight home after practice, so at least Nathan doesn’t have to track him down. He‘s in the living room, scribbling away on the drawing tablet he bought two weeks before. 

“I can’t believe you bought that thing,” Goose laments. 

“It’s helpful,” Swoops insists.  “I can write notes right on the image.”

“If I told you you need to get some fresh air, would you listen?”

“Not a chance,” Swoops says. “What are you doing here anyway?”

_ I’m having a shit day, _ he thinks. But instead, Nathan says, “Wanted to make sure you’re doing alright.”

“Yeah, dude,” Swoops tells him absent mindedly. “I’m fine. Just fucking around with Providence’s statistics a little.” 

“Impressive,” he chirps.

Swoops doesn’t catch the joke, or doesn’t care, because he starts mumbling about the goalies’ save percentages. He does that for a few minutes before Nathan decides to give up. 

He trudges to Kent’s room and passes out for a while. He wakes up later with the feeling of lips on his forehead. He pretends for two seconds that it’s Perry. That maybe he could get his shit together and everyone could be happy where they’re supposed to be. 

“Hey,” Nathan whispers without opening his eyes. 

“Hey,” Kent says, “you eat already?”

“Did you?” 

“‘Course not,” Kent says with an incredulous tone.

Nathan groans, grabbing Kent before rolling onto his side.

Kent laughs, reaching out to hug him tightly. “So dinner?”

“I’m not moving,” Nathan admits. 

Kent doesn’t complain. He kisses Nathan harshly. It’s a language they’ve crafted between practices, late nights, and early mornings. They use physical affection to suppress their emotions. They express concern in hesitant moments before and after. Maybe if they said what was wrong out loud even once, they’d be perfect for each other. Instead of perfectly indulgent enablers. 

“Put something on,” Kent says. “I’ll grab leftovers.”

“Heat them up this time,” Nathan shouts after him.

“You wish,” he says. Which is Kent speak for “ok.”

Maybe they don’t have anything figured out by a long shot. But Kent makes sure Nathan gets out of bed for practice, and he makes sure Kent can sleep after his nightmares. 

It’s good enough for now. 

_/.\\_ 

2007 

Nathan’s sixteen. Nehal died two months ago. He can’t remember much since her funeral. It’s been a blur of parties and hockey games since then. He doesn’t hook up with sober people because they ask what’s wrong when he cries. He feels himself in dim, crowded hallways with someone else’s hand shoved down his pants. 

A cute Punjabi girl in his chemistry class keeps giving him notes while he works on her lit essays. It’s not like he can’t do them himself. It just feels nice to be needed. It’s easier than spending half the night after practice racking his brain over molecular formulas, anyway.  

“How’re you going to become a doctor if you don’t pay attention in class?” the girl, Harjas, chirps him every once in awhile. 

Because he’s gotten good at suppressing his feelings, he offers her a soft dopey smile. “How are you going to be a lawyer if you can’t write an essay?”

“Touché,” she says with a smirk. “Perhaps what you need is a bit of tutoring.” 

At parties after his team wins, she takes him to a bedroom and shows him a good time. Sometimes she brings her friend or boyfriend. Nathan doesn’t care. They all know how to keep their mouths shut when it counts. 

They teach him more about anatomy than he ever thought possible. He doesn’t worry too much about how his grades are slipping or how the only effort he has anymore is put into hockey. 

Rather, he focuses on the way Harjas’ body responds so eagerly to him. It feels nice to feel wanted. 

_/.\\_ 

2010

It’s November and Carter’s dialing Darren’s number for maybe the millionth time. Every time he tries to get ahold of Darren, he won’t pick up. It doesn’t matter what time it is, and Carter’s getting so sick of trailing after him, hoping he’ll respond. It doesn’t feel worth it to talk at this point. He slumps back against the sectional in Smithy’s living room. 

Goose shouts greetings as he walks in from the garage, shucking his shoes and bag on the floor. He groans as he stretches his arms over his head. 

“What’s up?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” Carter says. “Just trying to make up for being a dick to a dick.”

“Well you shouldn’t apologize for what you are, Carter,” Goose says with a grave tone. “We all have dicks. Well, most of us at least.” 

“Not what I meant,” he says, trying to hold back a smirk. 

Goose takes a seat next to him on the couch, picking up one of the controllers on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Mind if we play a few rounds?” Goose asks.

“Sure,” he relents. “I don’t see why not.” 

Carter beats him in two rounds of smash before Goose raises his stock. It doesn’t help him much, but it’s enough that their game lasts longer than five minutes. 

“So, who is it?” Goose asks. 

“Huh?”

“That you’re trying to apologize to,” he elaborates. 

“Oh,” Carter murmurs. “My twin brother.” 

“What happened?” 

Carter takes a deep breath. “I told him to fuck off.”

Goose snorts incredulously. “That’s it?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” 

“Ok,” Goose says. 

They remain quiet for the rest of the game. Carter doesn’t notice because he hyper fixates on video games. It’s over before he can really blink. Goose nudges him lightly before he can put on the next game. Goose won’t look up from his controller.

“Whatever it was, you can apologize over a voicemail,” Goose tells him. “It might suck. But at least you know he’ll hear it when he’s ready.” 

“We need to talk about it,” Carter says impatiently. “He’s my best friend. I’ve never fought with him for this long.”

“I get it.” He makes a sound between a laugh and a wheeze. “I really fucking get it. But...look, take it from me, the last thing you want is to wait around and wake up one day and realize you wasted so much time trying to do it the ‘right way’.” Goose pauses for a beat, then he says, “I would give anything to talk to my sister one more time. You’re lucky.”

Carter huffs. It’s not like he can really argue with that. It feels like he and Darren have been on a slow downward spiral for years. He thinks they owe it to each other to really talk shit out. Regardless, he tries calling again later that night. This time, he leaves a voicemail.

“Hey, it’s your brother, Carter. Remember me? Fuck, sorry, this is supposed to be an apology. I just wanted to say — Vegas isn’t the same without you. I hope you’re killing it out in California. Love you.”   

_/.\\_ 

Carter’s never been more than a few miles from Darren his entire life. They’re inseparable. Some people say twins make their own languages. It’s more like after years of constantly being around each other, they’ve talked about everything imaginable. So when their mom brings up the NHL draft a week before it’s going to take place, all Carter has to do is look at Darren to say “here we go again.” 

They’re having dinner at home because Dawn insists they’ll miss quality family time. Emmanuel’s been regaling them with stories about comeuppances around his private practice. 

“I can’t believe my babies are going off to college,” Dawn says at one point. “It feels like yesterday you were both toddling around, singing along to Gullah Gullah Island.”

“Mom,” Carter groans. 

“I’m sorry, you boys grew up so fast,” Dawn says. 

He glances at Darren, who’s shooting him a commiserating glare. Carter’s eyes furrow when his mind catches up to something else she said. 

“I’m not going to college, Mom,” he corrects her. 

She hums neutrally. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dawn clears her throat. “Well, eventually you’ll be going to college—”

“Yeah, when I’m like thirty and retired.” 

She tsks. “Really, Carter Benjamin? Step into my shoes for two minutes. My son expects to be drafted by a professional hockey team.”

“Because I’m one of the top forwards in the WHL,” he points out. 

“Without any backup plans,” she argues.   

“My backup plan is another year in juniors,” he says. 

“And what if they don’t take you next year? Or the year after?”

“Then I go to community college,” Carter explains.

“Schools like Harvard and Samwell don’t wait forever.” 

“I don’t need to go to school to work for you, Mom.” 

“But what if something happens to me? Or the company? What’re you going to do then?”

His anxiety creeps up his throat. He feels like he’s being strangled from the inside out. He doesn’t want to think about something happening to his parents. He doesn’t want to think about his mom’s successful third party vendor site failing. It’s been her pride and joy ever since she quit programming for Amazon. He doesn’t want to think about being forced to go to college when it stands for everything he hates about his childhood. All the expectations and disappointment from his parents would just pile up until he couldn’t take it anymore and dropped out. But he can already see the disappointment in his mother’s eye for not wanting to go to Stanford with Darren. 

“We can cross that bridge when we get to it,” Emmanuel says, trying to placate them both. 

Carter takes a deep breath, counting to ten in his head. “I’ll be fine.” 

“You can’t expect us to take care of you forever, Carter,” she insists. 

“I know,” he says curtly. “That’s why I’m trying to get a multi-million dollar contract.”

“Mom, it’s fine,” Darren finally interjects. “He’s got this.” 

“You need to stop enabling your brother, Darren Luis,” Dawn says. 

“He’s not enabling me—”

“I’m not enabling him—”

Dawn shakes her head, picking at her plate. The rest of dinner is a tense affair. She takes all their plates away without a word. Darren and Carter look at each other worriedly. Carter frowns, at a loss of what to do. Darren nods reassuringly.       

“Mom,” Darren says when she comes back from the kitchen. “We get that you’re worried about us, but—”  

She holds up a finger to shush him. “Answer me this — when was the last time one of you did something major without the other?”   

Carter balks. He can’t think of any off the top of his head. He wracks his brain for a while, but Darren and their father look just as stumped. 

“That’s what I thought,” she says quietly before leaving the room. 

She’s right, of course. They’ve been attached at the hip since they were born. The longer he sits on this thought, the more bile builds in his throat. That didn’t make them codependent, did it? He stews on this for a few days. 

He’s staring blankly at his suitcase. Which he’s supposed to be packing to go to LA for the draft. Darren walks into his room. 

“What are you doing?” 

Carter shrugs. 

Darren tsks just like their mom. He starts chatting about what Carter should wear and about how much time he’ll have to do cool shit. It puts Carter on edge, because he’s never realized how dependent he is on his twin to do shit for him. Which he hates, or he hated, at least. When was the last time he was allowed to handle something for himself? 

“Stop,” Carter says. 

Darren straightens up. Despite being the shorter of the two, he always felt taller to Carter, larger than life, really. “Why?” 

“I can do it myself.”

“But you weren’t,” Darren says. 

“Doesn’t matter, just drop it.”

“Dude, seriously? It’s just clothing. It takes two seconds.” 

“Just go, ok?” Carter snaps. “I can handle this myself.” 

“What the fuck is your problem?”

And because Darren has to be the one to call him out on his shitty mood, Carter bites back. 

“You,” Carter says. “You don’t have to come in here and tidy up my fucking life because I’m too much of a burden to do it myself.”

“Who the fuck ever said any of that?”

“Fuck off, you don’t need to say it to think it,”

Darren waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever, you’re being immature. You don’t want help, I won’t give it to you.” 

Carter gestures to the door. Darren exits, only to come back a minute later. Carter scrubs his face in frustration. 

“You know what? Fuck you. You don’t get to tell me to fuck off,” Darren snaps.

“It’s my room.”

“Fuck that. If you get drafted, it’s because we got there. It’s my dream too, asshole.”

“You quit hockey when we were five,” Carter says.

“Who convinced mom to let you keep going to practice? Who fucking lied to her about you being able to play NCAA hockey if this falls through?” 

“Fuck off, Darren,” Carter hisses. “I worked my fucking ass off to get here, and all anyone seems to think is ‘how’s Carter gonna cope without his big brother?’ It’s fucking bullshit and I’m sick of it.” 

“You get to do whatever the fuck you want, and I have to go make mom happy,” Darren says. 

“You’re majoring in sociology at fucking Stanford. No one’s making you do that,” he rants. “Stop whining and admit you like making yourself fucking miserable so I always owe you one.” 

Carter balks at his own words. Darren does the same. When they were ten, they made a pact underneath a blanket fort in between pokemon matches. It was hours past their bedtimes, and all they had was contraband snacks from their grandmother and the light of their gameboys. They promised each other that they’d always be best friends. Because that’s all they needed— food, fun, and each other, always. It would be them against the world, and nothing could ever tear them apart. 

Darren shakes his head, storming out of the bedroom. Carter goes back to packing. 

He doesn’t think about how he broke the only promise that ever mattered to him.

_/.\\_ 

_ Across for Parson. And it’s Harris who brings it in, drapes it around Doughty, goes for the goal...score! _

_/.\\_ 

2003 

“Kill me now, dad,” Marcus says instead of hello. It’s February, and he’s in his hotel room in Anaheim. He’s needs to vent.

“What did Calvin do this time?” Terrence says knowingly. 

“Don’t call him that,” Marcus protests. “He’s going to be the fucking death of me. One minute he’s calling Fitz a cocksucker, the next he’s checking some third lineman on the Ducks into the boards because he called me a fag.” 

“Keep talking,” Terrence says cautiously. 

“He’s so hypocritical,” Marcus rants. “It’s like the more I complain about the toxicity of hockey culture, the less he fucking understands about his own fucking actions.” 

“Marcus,” Terrence protests. 

“Dad he’s just — everything with him feels like wading through a vat of vanilla pudding.” He’s gesturing emphatically with his free hand.

“That’s a disturbing image.” 

“My point exactly.” Marcus takes a deep breath, taking another lap around the hotel room. “Couldn’t he just — go back to being a douchebag and leave me alone?”

“Marcus,” Terrence says again. 

“Yeah?”

“Never fall for a straight boy,” Terrence says simply. 

“Never fall for a straight boy,” Marcus agrees. 

“Son, a word of advice?” 

“Yeah?”

“Straight boys can learn to be better people,” Terrence says. “But it isn’t your burden to teach them that.”

“I know,” Marcus agrees. 

“And sweetheart? Fixing him won’t make him fall for you,” he says. 

“I know, dad.” 

“I know, you’re a smart young man,” he says before clearing his throat. “I just don’t want to see your heart getting broken.” 

Marcus chuckles as he wipes a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “Too late for that.”

“I’m sorry,” Terrence says. “I really am.”

“Yeah, dad,” Marcus says. “Me too.” 

He falls back on his bed after they exchange goodbyes. He stares at the ceiling and thinks of some nebulous man waiting for him in Detroit. Some guy who doesn’t play hockey but loves Detroit as much as he does. Someone who could really love him. 

That’d be nice. 

_/.\\_ 

2010

They lose to the Blackhawks by two. Kent, as usual, is the last one in the showers. He trembles under the hot spray of the water. It’s the only thing holding his tears back. It’s the first time in months he’s been alone with his thoughts. He hates so much about this season: Jeff won’t look up from his fucking tape; the locker room gets more suffocating every day; he hasn’t seen Jack since the night he overdosed. When his face is drenched enough, Kent finally blinks. He chokes back a sob. 

He shoves two fingers into himself, hoping maybe an orgasm is enough to get him through the end of this roadie. He thinks about Jack’s lips against his neck. He thinks about the sweet things Jack used to murmur after a good game as he pumped his fingers into Kent. He definitely doesn’t think about how it feels when Nathan’s touching him. Although, if he were, it would be because Nathan knows what he’s doing and does it well. 

The thought makes him laugh through a few hiccups. A few minutes later, he’s sliding down against the bathroom wall. It’s enough to make himself get dressed and head back to his hotel room. Part of him misses rooming with Jeff. But there’s something peaceful about crying himself to sleep. Tonight, he doesn’t need alcohol or an extra pair of hands to keep him sane. He’s proud of himself for that. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Parson gets to the puck, spins it around. Here’s Troy down center sl—he shoots, he scores!   _

_/.\\_ 

They’re in Boston when Jeff’s nerves finally get the best of him. He’s been suggesting shit to Price for week. Smithy and West have taken half his suggestions for optimizing practice drills. The Aces are doing fine, just not well enough to make into the playoffs. Not at this rate anyway. 

Price announces the starting lineup for the Bruins game. He’s fucking with the lines again. He put Kent with Wilson. Homophobic, racist, “should be kept away from Kent if he wants to keep his face intact” Wilson. 

The last thing they need is to be that team whose players fight each other. 

“Coach,” he says with a neutral tone. “You positive about that lineup?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, Troy?”

“I just think—” he says tersely “—it’ll affect team chemistry and moral.” 

“Troy, just because I bumped Parson up to the first line doesn’t mean you need to bitch about it,” Price complains. 

“That isn’t what this is about, sir _ , _ ” he insists, walking over to make his point clear. 

“So what?” Price demands. “What makes you think you can do my job?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,  _ sir _ —”

“No, I’m sick of you butting your nose into every fucking play,” Price says. “You want to change the lineup so badly? Grow a pair, act like a goddamn professional, and stop wasting everyone’s time with your shitty plays.” 

“It’s not about me, you arrogant, selfish prick!” he shouts. “Maybe if you’d get your fucking head out those delusional ‘glory days’ anecdotes you could actually coach this fucking team.” 

Price blinks once, then twice. His ears turn bright red as he sneers. 

“This is my fucking team, Troy, and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!” He roars. “Next time I get lip out of you, I’m sending you to Reno.” 

It takes all of Jeff’s mental energy not to punch Price’s face into a pulp. He backs up slightly, relenting. 

Price smirks in satisfaction. He looks around the room slowly. “Anyone else wanna stage a mutiny?” 

The room remains silent. 

“Thought not. Alright, ladies, try not to embarrass yourselves out there.”   

_/.\\_ 

2001 

Jeff is ten, coming home from riding bikes with his friends. They’re not the kids from school that his parents approve of. They’re kids he’s met at hockey clinics and around their neighborhood. They’re rougher than professors’ kids. They aren’t preoccupied with expanding their intellectual horizons or networking early enough to get into a good boarding school. They’re loud, rough, and want to have fun. Everything Jeff’s parents hate. 

Sometimes it feels good to defy them. 

He puts his bike securely in the back corner of the garage. His dad would be annoyed if he didn’t store it properly (or use it for anything other than light exercise). When he gets inside, his mom is busy in her office. Jeff lets out a quiet sigh. He’s both relieved and annoyed. Phone calls mean another lecture series, meaning another one to six months of barely seeing her. 

“Jeffery,” his dad calls from his office on the other side of the first floor. “Come here.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says in the politest tone possible. 

He makes sure to keep his back straight and his chin up; the last thing he needs is a lecture on poor posture and not scuffing the hardwood floor. His father is typing away on his Gateway desktop. Its thick white monitor takes up half the desk. 

“What have your mother and I told you about associating with those hooligans?” his father asks, not looking away from his screen. 

“They’re a bad influence and a testament to toxic masculinity,” Jeff recites dutifully. 

“Exactly,” his dad says. “So why do you continue to defy?”

“They’re my teammates, dad,” he explains. “I can’t play well if we don’t have chemistry off the ice.” 

His father takes off his glasses, rubbing his temple roughly. “Remember, Jeffery, hockey is merely a hobby to keep you physically active.” 

“I know—”  

“You know what?”

“I understand, sir,” Jeff corrects himself. 

His father raises a brow. “If you don't take the rules of this house seriously, we’ll simply have to take away your privileges.”

“Dad, no,” Jeff gapes. “That’s not fair. All I did was leave the house for two hours.” 

“On whose permission?”

“Mom’s—”  

“Don’t lie to me,” he shouts. “You’re letting these delinquents poison your mind with a Laissez-faire attitude and delusions of grandeur. You will refrain from seeing these heathens outside of practice or you will be removed from that team and stripped of socialization privileges outside of this home.”  

“But I’m going to Aunt Trish’s next week—”

His father slams a hand on his desk. “Not if you don’t shape up. You’re ten years old, Jeffery. It’s time you started acting like it.” 

And because he knew he was powerless to say otherwise, Jeff grins and bears it. “Yes,  _ sir _ .” 

_/.\\_ 

_ Parson, the little speedster, comes through. He’s got those legs pumping. Here comes Erksine. Drags it back—he scores!   _

_/.\\_ 

2010

The Aces beat the Sabres. Perry bolts as soon as post-game interviews are over. They take a cab to an address in the suburbs. They’d got a call a month ago, and it was about time they remedied the situation. They knock on a two story family home with white siding and red brick. Perry’s been here a few times before. It’s surreal showing up here after more than a year. 

They knock on the door, suddenly feeling self conscious about the expensive suit they’re wearing. 

A brunette in her late 40s opens the door, giving Perry a wide smile. 

“Hi Mrs. Birkholtz,” they say as they shift awkwardly. 

“Oh, come here, honey.” She tsks, opening her arms for them. 

She hugs them like they’re not half a foot taller than her. Perry smiles so hard their cheeks ache. 

“I’ve told you a million times to call me Michelle, honey,” she chastises them. “It’s good to see you, Mateo. He’s in his room.” 

Perry nods, swallowing thickly. They’re nervous, but they also haven’t been called by their first name in months. It feels like regressing, like being shoved back into closet they don’t have to conform to back in Vegas. Where the people who matter treat them like a person and the people who don’t treat them like a standard hockey player. 

“He won’t bite,” she says as she ushers him inside. “... Anymore.” 

“Not helping,” they protest.

“Perry,” Michelle says with a pat to their shoulder, “he’ll be glad you came. You’re better off tapping him awake, though. He might not hear you otherwise.” 

As they climb the stairs, Perry gets a lot of second thoughts. Maybe it was dumb coming back here. Maybe it was best to leave the past where they left it. Then again, sometimes they forget that they broke up with Adam for practical reasons—not because they wanted to. It’s easy to pretend that things don’t hurt when they’re the one responsible for it. 

They knock on the door once before pushing it open. Adam’s lying on the far side of the bed, facing the wall. The room is pitch black. Perry closes the door behind theirself. It takes a minute for their eyes to adjust. They sit down on the bed as Adam rolls over.

“Fuck, is hallucinating a concussion symptom?” Adam asks as he scrubs his face, sitting up. 

“Probably?” Perry shrugs. “But I’m here. It’s really me, Adam.”

Adam grins while furrowing his brows. “What’re y-you doing here, Per?” 

“I came to see you,” they tell him. “Your mom called me—”

“Fuck, w-why? I t-told her not to t-tell y-you.”

“Why?”

Adam stares down at the quilt his Bubbe made for him a few years back. He clenches it tightly in his fist. 

“I didn’t w-want y-you to see me like this,” Adam grunts. “I...how-w much did she tell y-you?”

“No screens for awhile, you’re going to speech therapy, you lost some hearing in your left ear.” They take Adam’s hand, holding it close to their chest. Perry kisses each knuckle tenderly. 

They continue talking, “She said if you’re smart you’ll never play again.” 

Adam snorts. “Good thing I’m an idiot.”

Perry shakes their head, throwing their arms around Adam’s neck, burying their head in his shoulder. Adam hugs them like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Perry ignores the tears of relief painting their face. 

“You scared the shit out of me,” they tell him quietly. “Your mom had to stop me from taking a healthy scratch to come see you.”   

“Fuck, d-don’t say that,” Adam says warily. “Y-you fuck-ing left.” 

Perry pulls back staring cautiously as Adam situates them so Perry’s sitting in his lap. They cup his face carefully, brushing away a stray tear with their thumb. “Not because I don’t love you, tonto.” 

Adam chuckles sadly. “Y-you’re just saying that.”

“Want me to prove it?” 

“Alw-ways.” 

They kiss for the first time in a year and a half. It tastes like grief and longing, like a tidal wave of tears unshed. Perry’s heart beats so hard it feels like they might die of it. Their hands vibrate as they run down Adam’s back. Adam runs his hands through Perry’s hair; he always liked it. Perry feels like they could get lost in this darkness with Adam to keep them company. It scares them how quickly their mind can think about adjusting their life to make room for Adam. 

“I love y-you,” Adam murmurs when they pull apart. 

“I love you too,” they say. “I’m sorry.” 

“‘Bout what?” 

“I guess I thought you were better off single then dealing with my schedule.”  

“Hey, Per?” 

“What?”

Adam kisses them again, softer this time. “I’d w-wait forever for you if I thought that’s w-what y-you w-wanted.” 

Perry shakes their head. “I don’t fucking know what I want anymore.” 

He rolls his eyes, scooting back against his headboard. Adam gestures for Perry to sit next to him. They comply, putting their head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around them.

“Tell m-me all about it,” he says comfortingly. 

Perry chuckles wetly. “I’m here for you, remember?”

“Two w-way street, babe,” he says. “C’mon, let’s be functional exes for tw-wo seconds.” 

So they tell him everything — how Swoops won’t stop fixating on winning, how Goose won’t get real help for his depression, and how Kent’s barely hanging on by a thread. 

“Wow-w, so shitty season, huh?”

“I don’t know why I thought pro hockey would be easier,” they admit. 

“It’s because you care, Per,” he laughs at his accidental rhyming. “They’ll come aro-und.”

“And if they don’t?”   

“I’ll m-move to Vegas and kick their asses for y-you.” 

Perry groans, holding Adam tighter. “I miss you all the time.”

“Same,” he says. “Is it dumb that I w-wish we w-were still d-dating right now?”

They bite their lip. “Is it dumb that I want that, too?”

When Perry kisses him this time, it feels like his stomach drops. They remember what it felt like to think that the future was so secure. Maybe they’d get married someday, or maybe Adam would but Perry wouldn’t and that would be fine. But things change. Nothing is stable, they’ve realized. Adam kisses Perry until they have to go back to their hotel. 

“I miss y-you all the time,” he says. 

“I’m here,” they insist. “I’m right here.”

“‘ts not the same, and y-you know it.” 

Perry nods, because of course it isn’t. There’s months and miles between. This isn’t a bedroom where they spent hours watching  _ 30 Rock  _ together. This isn’t where they said I love you to each other for the first time. It’s a space in between hopes and reality—it’s like two AM in an abandoned school. All reason is out the door and nothing remains but their thoughts. 

They think about what it would take to move Adam to Vegas, about how much it would cost to get a place of their own. But they know him. He likes giving until he breaks. Maybe that’s what was great about them; it was a two way street that only lead to minor bruises. 

“I’d miss you more if I thought there was something I could do differently,” Perry admits. 

“Prom-ise m-me that if that asshole hurts you, you’ll give me a call,” he says. 

“Which one?”

“The one y-you’re in love with, Per,” he says simply. 

Perry kisses him again. “I can love more than one person at once you know?”

“Yea,” Adam says as he smirks a little too proudly. “W-we’ll figure it out, Per.”

Because it was Adam, Perry was inclined to believe him. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Hensick to Cracknell. Cracknell—oh intercepted by Perez. Perez shoots it straight past Hensick to Harris. Harris to Troy. Troy rushed by Cole, but manages to get it to Parson. Parson bolts down the ice, passing the puck back to Harris. Harris shoots—oh what an outstanding goal by Carter Harris! You’re not gonna see a prettier goal than that.   _ **** __

_/.\\_ 

Carter wakes up from his after practice nap to the sound of something his mamita would play while making dinner for everyone. 

_ Ay no me digas que no _

_ Que no me quieres _

He rubs his eyes, groaning as he rolls out of bed. He opens his bedroom door, ready to shout at whoever’s been so damn loud. The furniture in the family room is pushed back. Smithy and West are dancing merengue. Smithy’s leading, twirling West somewhat successfully. They change rhythm, West leading now. Their hips sway to the beat. There’s a flurry of quick step ball changes and turns. They’re perfectly in sync with each other. 

“Porque si tu no me quieres. Yo por ti me muero,” West sings along. 

Smithy laughs. “You ridiculous mountain man. You think you can woo me with some broken Spanish?”

“Is it working?”

“Keep talking,” Smithy says with a chuckle. “Maybe it’ll grow on me.” 

West laughs, kissing Smithy softly. 

They keeping moving without missing a beat, like they’ve been doing this forever. It’s nice, soothing. Carter leans against the second floor banister, watching them dance. It must be nice to have a partner like that. He wonders if they were always so perfect for each other. 

_/.\\_ 

2003 

They don’t make it into the playoffs that year. West says he wants to talk to Marcus about something. He’s seeing someone, West says. That, Marcus could’ve predicted. 

“His name is Michael,” West says. 

Which, Marcus had never expected to hear. 

“Are you —” Marcus says with a smirk that he hopes is effectively hiding the panic he feels. “Are you coming out to me?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” West admits with a blush. “You’re my best friend, y’know? I wanted to tell you first.” 

“Oh,” Marcus says with a nod. “Well thanks for telling me, man. I’m really happy for you. Tell me about him.”

West chatters amicably. He looks happier than he has the entire time Marcus has known him. He’s not as entitled or aloof as he was a year ago. He still says shitty things, but more often than not he stops and apologizes now. He’s not a bad guy. 

Marcus is glad they’re friends. 

West makes a throw away comment about him and Michael taking a roadtrip over the offseason. Maybe they’ll stop in Michigan. Marcus gives him some suggestions for campgrounds and places to visit. He doesn’t mention Detroit because he doesn’t want to see West there.

West calls him one day in July asking for his address. They’re in Detroit. Victor frowns worriedly from the breakfast table as Marcus explains how to get to their house. 

“You’re expecting company?” Victor asks. 

“Apparently,” Marcus says with a frown. “West called—”

“I thought you told him to leave you alone,”

Marcus scratches the back of his neck. “That’s not exactly what happened.”

Victor nods curtly. “I’ll make it a half day, then. I’ll be back from the office at lunch. We’ll show them around, invite them to dinner somewhere.” 

“Can we not?” 

“Marcus, if he’s your friend you should treat him like any other friend,” Victor reasons. 

“I hate when you’re right,” Marcus says with no heat.  

“I don’t get to be right too often,” Victor says with a smirk, “let me enjoy it.” 

West arrives with Michael maybe an hour later. Marcus doesn’t know what do besides offer them something to drink and ask about their trip. West talks for the both of them. Michael sits there trying hard not to look bored out of his mind. Marcus sort of hates him less for that. He’s trying, that’s something. 

Victor comes back, and they go to the African Bead Museum. Victor talks for hours about how everything’s made. Marcus’ lip twitches when he hears how animated Victor’s voice is. He should’ve been an artist, a craftsman. He should’ve worked with his hands making the world’s most beautiful creations. He still paints in his free time, but Marcus knows it’s not the same. 

At some point, Terrence joins them, and they go to dinner. Terrence and West trade mildly embarrassing stories about Marcus, which he’s glad to give back in kind. 

“So, uh, what’d you think?” West asks when Michael's already back in the rental car, ready to head to somewhere in Indiana for the night. 

“Of what?” 

“Michael,” West says. 

“Oh,” Marcus says,  _ of course. _

And because he’s had years of media training and pretends to be ok more often than he should, he puts on something a lot like his real smile. It’s soft and hesitant on his lips. “He seems like a good dude,” Marcus says truthfully. “I’m glad he makes you happy.” 

West smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Marcus tries not to think,  _ it could’ve been me. You could want me.  _

He watches West’s car leave. He keeps watching as it disappears into the horizon. Marcus trudges back inside. Terrence and Victor are watching some true crime show because that’s been their “thing” lately. 

“So that was him,” Terrence says simply. 

Marcus wedges himself in the space between them. He shuts his eyes as he leans into Victor’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says simply. 

He can feel his dads glancing at each other over his head. 

“Never fall for a white boy,” Terrence says. 

Marcus chuckles. “I thought it was never fall for a straight boy.” 

“Perhaps just... learn how to let go when the boy isn’t right for you,” Victor remedies. 

“You got that right,” Marcus says. 

Maybe it wasn’t a clear cut rule, but one thing was clear. He should’ve never fallen for Calvin West. 


	3. Winter

Nathan’s team makes it as far as the conference finals. His team drinks their sorrows into the early hours of the morning. He can’t stop wondering if Nehal would be proud of them for getting this far in the season or disappointed in him for being so weak. He chugs an entire bottle of vodka because it burns less than the bile in his throat. 

The cheap fluorescent lights of his teammate’s basement along with the litany of congratulations and lips against his face drown out his mind. Nathan feels his mind shutting down. He thinks briefly that this is the perfect ending to horrifying year. 

It’s April. 

He wakes up with a wet cloth against his neck and his head lying on a toilet seat. He turns his head enough to puke. A soothing hand rubs at his back. He hears soft murmurings in Punjabi and grimaces. 

He made it home somehow. 

Nathan doesn’t remember much after that. He drifts in and out of consciousness a few times. His mother keeps saying I love you and you’re going to be ok. He has to blink back tears while he continues to puke. 

Eventually, there’s nothing left to throw up, so he dry heaves as he cries hysterically. Because he’s sure he fucked his grades enough to never be a doctor. Because he never wanted to be a doctor in the first place. Nehal is dead, and he can never come out. 

His mother tucks him into bed well after sunrise. She kisses his forehead, petting his hair carefully. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “We’ve let you down.”

“Mummy—” he starts to protest.   

“You’re not happy like this, sweetie,” she says. “We love you. Whoever you are or whatever you want, we want you to be here to do it. Understand?”

He feels eight years old again, being told that he’s good enough. He sobs into his pillow as she keeps saying good things about him. He feels like he hasn’t earned any of it. 

_/.\\_ 

2003 

It’s November, and Calvin hasn’t made a move. Because months haven’t dulled the ache in his chest from screwing up his first real relationship. Because he knows Marcus deserves better than who he is right now. Marcus scores once in the second period. 

Calvin rushes him during the celly. They cling to each other tightly. Calvin wonders if Marcus can feel his heart booming out of his chest. He wonders if he could die of a heart attack from the nerves he feels. He tries not to think of the way Marcus’ chin rests perfectly on his shoulder. 

They break apart all too quickly. 

The Aces win by two that game. Calvin goes out with some of the guys that night to celebrate. He tries not to think about Marcus going back to their hotel. He’s never one for partying. When he first got traded, he thought Marcus was boring or prudish. Then he thought ‘maybe he’s just gay’. Later he thought ‘maybe I’m just an asshole.’ 

It occurs to Calvin as he downing his first beer of the night that maybe he doesn’t get anything about Marcus. Maybe he’s been building a good player up in his mind to be a perfect man. Maybe he doesn’t know how to want Marcus in the right way. 

He takes a taxi back to their hotel in downtown LA. He steels himself while he’s in front of Marcus’ door. He knocks quietly a few times. There’s a muffled shout coming from behind the door. A woman with bright red hair opens the door. 

“May I help you?” she asks coolly. 

“Uh, no sorry,” he says. “I must’ve gotten the wrong room.”

“You looking for Marcus?” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“He’s taking a shower,” she says as she gestures inside. “You can come in, I’m on my way out.”

“Ok.” He allows himself to be ushered inside by a woman half his height. 

She grabs her purse from the nightstand next to the bed. “Tell Marcus I’ll call him later. And, uh, I had fun.” 

“Alright,” Calvin agrees quietly. 

Calvin sits on the couch, not trying to jump out of skin. Of course Marcus is seeing someone. Of course he should, he deserves better than someone who can barely give him the time of day. Marcus walks out of the showers with grey pajama bottoms and a faded Red Wings shirt on. 

“Hey,” Marcus says with a bewildered frown. “I thought you went out with the guys.”

Calvin shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it. Wanted to see what my best friend does after games.” 

Marcus smirks, quirking a brow. “Well tonight, it’s watching some tape and then  _ America’s Next Top Model _ .” 

“Mind if I join you?” Calvin asks. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, if that’s ok,” he says. 

Marcus rolls his eyes, waving him over to the bed. 

“When was the last time you watched tape, huh?”

“Plenty,” Calvin says.

“Outside of practice,” Marcus clarifies, “on your  _ own _ time.”

“It’s been a while,” he admits. 

“You get paid millions every year to barely do your job,” Marcus says. “You know that, right?”

“Give it to me straight, Smithy,” Calvin snarks. “Don’t go easy on me.” 

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Marcus says with a light nudge.

They watch for a while before switching to ANTM. Calvin doesn’t bring up the woman who left earlier because he doesn’t want to think about her. Marcus doesn’t ask, so he thinks it’s probably fine. She’ll call him later and complain about his friend. Everything will keep going as it does. 

Calvin keeps staying in with Marcus after games. 

He never says anything about needing space or having other plans. But every time Marcus’ phone buzzes, Calvin’s heart flips. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today he’ll have to accept the inevitable. 

_/.\\_ 

_ 7:26 to go in the second...nice move by Troy who cuts in...he shoots, he scores!  _

_/.\\_ 

2011

Carter’s shot of the night didn’t make it in. The Aces lose. All he can think about is how soon Price is going to decide to trade him or knock him down to the farm team, or find some way to rip up his contract. Carter feels himself hyperventilating. He needs to get a grip, but he can’t. It’s the end of a long roadie. He’s kicking himself for not getting close enough to the posts. Or maybe he was too close? Or maybe—

“Carter,” Kent’s voice is in front of him even though he can’t focus well on it. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he rasps. 

“Can you tell me four other things you hear?”

Carter tries to concentrate. “Price is yelling. Smithy’s saying something. Fish is laughing... Anderson is being an asshole.”

Kent chuckles. “Ok, can you tell me four things you can see.”

Carter blinks a few times. “My hands, the carpet, my shin pads, and my hockey pants.”

“Three things you can smell,” he instructs. 

“Your nasty deodorant,” Carter chirps, forcing a laugh out of himself. 

“Ouch, but fair,” Kent says playfully. “What else?”

“Sweat, and those cookies Skenzy’s wife made for us.” 

“Two things you can touch? You can touch stuff on me, y’know.” 

Carter grips his hockey pants in a repetitive motion. He reaches out, feeling Kent gently hold his hand. 

“One thing you can taste?” Kent continues. 

Carter’s brows furrow. He looks up finally. “What am I supposed to taste in a fucking locker room?” 

Goose and Perry laugh on the other side of the room. 

“Ignore them,” Kent says with an eyeroll. “You don’t have to taste anything. How’re you feeling now?”

He was doing all of that for Carter’s anxiety. “Better,” he admits. “Thanks. How’d you—”

Kent stands up, clapping his shoulder. “You were awesome tonight. You still scored, ok? Don’t forget that.”

“Ok,” he agrees.

Carter notices the way Kent’s eyes get a little glassy. 

“Hey are you... ok?”

“I, uh, I’ll be back,” Kent says before rushing out of the room. 

Carter looks across the room, Goose and Perry are giving him panicked looks. He gapes. 

“What did I do?” 

“Nothing,” Perry assures him. “He’ll be ok. It’s... a long story.”

West walks out of the shower, groaning as he runs a towel through his hair. He frowns, looking around the room. “Where’s Kent?”

Smithy sighs. “C’mon, let’s go find him.”

Perry and Goose keep him otherwise occupied on the ride home. Which Carter is marginally thankful for, because otherwise he’d be fixating on Kent. Kent who smiles so easily sometimes it feels fake. After seeing him crumble from a single question, maybe Carter’s right. Maybe there are just some scars that are so deep that anything can make them bleed.            

He and Perry get into a debate about what to watch after the game. Suddenly, he’s watching  _ Waiting to Exhale _ , wondering how much the desert changes people. Is it healing, traumatizing, or some process of petrifying old wounds until they crack so hard they reopen? Carter wonders if he’ll be a different person when he makes his way out of here. 

He wonders what all of them will be like when everything’s said and done.   

_/.\\_ 

_ Harris... he got ahead to take two on two with Kent Parson ahead. Have it around Wallin—straight to the goal! Score! A spectacular goal by eighteen-year-old Carter Harris! You won’t see anything better than that. He made ‘em look silly! _

_/.\\_ 

It’s the second week of February. Kent dragged him out of his hotel room earlier that day. It was long enough to eat at this hipster bakery in Denver. Not that Jeff cared much, because he’s fixating on why they lost. He’s watching tape from this game, picking apart every single moment of ice time. There’s a knock on his door. He sighs, not wanting to deal with whatever it is this time. 

Kent’s at the door, holding a bag of take out. 

“What’s this?” 

“You need dinner, I wanna see what you’re up to,” Kent says. “Win, win, right?”

Jeff sighs. He couldn’t argue with this logic. “Yeah, c’mon in.” 

They get situated on his bed. Kent pulls out small paper takeout boxes, opening them meticulously. 

“Ok I got like—every type of taco imaginable. What’re you feeling?”

“Whatever’s fine,” he says as he presses play to the game. 

“What the fuck, man, we just played this game,” Kent chirps. 

“I know, that’s why I’m watching it.” 

“Why?”

“So I can fix our strategy for next time,” Jeff explains impatiently. “We can’t lose to one of the worst teams in the division and expect to get far in playoffs.” 

Kent furrows his brows. He looks back at the game, shaking his head. Jeff chooses to ignore this gesture. Kent keeps handing him tacos, and he just accepts them without looking away from the screen. He feels like his eyes will never shut again from how long he’s been staring at this screen. The AC is buzzing quietly by the window. The bed sheets are too stiff. Jeff feels like he might scream over nothing. 

He shuts his thoughts up, trying to focus on tape. 

What feels like two seconds later, Kent’s shutting the lid of his laptop. 

“What the fuck, Parse?”

“Swoops, you need a break, ok?” he insists. “Ten minutes, c’mon, buddy. Just eat some tacos with me. We didn’t do that much for your birthday. C’mon, let me make it up?”

“Why does this matter so much to you?” Jeff complains. “I’m fine. I just want to get some fucking work done.”

“We didn’t lose the goddamn game, Jeff,” he says, “we won by two. You scored.” 

“That didn’t count,” Jeff argues. 

“Says who?”

“It was sloppy and slow.”

“Hey, no,” Kent says. “Jeff, it went in through the five hole. That’s a great goal.” 

Jeff shakes his head. It wasn’t good enough. They shouldn’t have counted it. He needs to be better. The team needs to be better. He has to fix this. 

“Look, let’s do something else tonight, alright?” Kent pleads. “Anything, watch a movie, listen to some Bruce Springsteen, go to fucking sleep. Anything you want that isn’t this.” 

There’s a quality to Kent’s voice that sends shivers down Jeff’s spine. It’s distant, lonely, and fearful. It reminds him of every time he’s had to pull Kent out of his head—away from Zimmermann. Jeff scrubs his face. He’s so sick of feeling like he isn’t good enough for his own life. He’s done with everything that reminds him he should’ve been on a different team, in a different life, if it weren’t for the fact that Zimmermann fucked up his. 

He’s done being a replacement. 

“Get out of here, Kent,” Jeff says lowly. 

“I’m worried about y—”

“I’m not Jack,” he snaps. “I’m not your fucking soft anxiety boy who you can coddle because you’re too fucked up to care about yourself.” 

Kent pales. He throws half of Jeff’s food on the floor before taking his and storming out. He opens up his laptop promptly afterward. Jeff doesn’t have time to think about how wet Kent’s face looked. He’s got plays to make.     

_/.\\_ 

They beat the Sharks in San Jose. Carter does a post game interview. It’s a lot of “how does it feel to be on a winning streak?” and “do you feel confident about the Aces playoff potential?” He finishes showering, puts his suit on and sighs. They’re not leaving for Anaheim until the morning. It would be easy to take a cab to Stanford. He shouldn’t, and he doesn’t even know where he would go. But it’s a thought that flits through his head as he slings his bag over his shoulder. He trudges out of the locker room, heading toward the bus.

“Carter!” he hears someone scream. 

He looks over his shoulder. His mom is running toward him. He catches her as she hugs him tightly. She kisses his cheek a few times.

“Mom, what are you doing here?”

“We came to watch you play,” she says. 

“We?”

She hitches her thumb behind her. His dad and Darren are walking up behind her, grinning fondly. 

“It was your brother’s idea,” Dawn explains. “It’s been so long since we were in the same place.”

Carter gapes. “You flew in just for the game?”

“Of course, son,” Emmanuel says Dawn moves away. 

His dad hugs him fiercely.

“You did so well out there,” he says, “truly a pro hockey player if I’ve ever seen one.” 

“We’re so proud of you, baby,” Dawn says emphatically. “You know we never miss your games. You’re so incredible out there.”

“Thanks,” he says wetly, clinging to his dad a little tighter. “It really means a lot having you guys here.”

“What, don’t I get any love?” Darren chirps. 

Carter snorts. “Wait your turn.”

“Eh, I’m impatient,” Darren admits. “Dad, come on, let go of him.” 

Emmanuel begrudgingly agrees. 

“You’re an asshole, and I love you,” Darren says as he hugs Carter.

“Don’t you mean ‘but I love you’?” Carter asks. 

“No, I love you because you’re an asshole, asshole.” 

“Love you, too,” he says. 

“You owe me a tour of your place in Vegas,” Darren says playfully. 

“You’ll have to visit me.

“I got nothing to do over spring break.” 

“Who’s inviting you?” Carter chirps. 

Darren laughs. “My loving baby brother, that’s who.” 

He hugs Carter a little tighter. His family’s proud of him. It lifts a ten ton weight off his shoulders. They’re going to be ok. That’s all that matters. 

_/.\\_ 

2004 

The next time someone says fag in the locker room, Calvin chews them out. The next time someone talks about a puck bunny like — well, a puck bunny — he chews them out. Some of the guys don’t invite him out anymore. But some of the other guys, the younger ones, start coming to him for advice or just an ear to listen to. 

Somehow, Marcus convinces him to host barbecues. 

“You’ve been on this team for two years now,” Marcus argues. “You want them to like you? It’s a two way street. Open the door to let some light in.”

“Does all your advice come from a fortune cookie?” Calvin chirps.

Marcus shakes his head. “Don’t be a dumbass.” 

And because Calvin’s learned to read Marcus like a book, he nods and mumbles an apology. 

Marcus sucks on his top lip. “What are you sorry for?” 

He shrugs stiffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I guess ‘cause I don’t know when to chirp, eh?” 

“Exactly, mountain man,” Marcus says. 

It takes everything Calvin has not to kiss the frown off his lips. 

“I’ll be better about that,” he says quietly. 

Marcus smirks ruefully. It makes Calvin’s heart melt more than he’d like to admit. 

_/.\\_

2011

Nathan’s having another shitty day. Lately, it feels like all he has is those. There are little moments, good little blips between all the nothingness. He wakes up in Kent’s bed, again. He tries to remember the last time he slept in his own bed. 

Kent’s brushing his teeth as he watches something on his phone. 

“Gross,” Nathan chirps.

He looks up, biting on his tooth brush so he can flip Nathan off. 

“What time is it?” 

Kent holds a finger up, quickly spitting into the trashcan. 

“There’s a sink right there,” Nathan says, pointing to the closed bathroom door behind Kent. 

He shakes his head with a mild look of panic. “It’s four thirty.”

“In the afternoon?”

“AM, jackass,” Kent retorts. 

“Why are you awake?” 

Kent shrugs. But Nathan isn’t an idiot, and he’s heard bits and pieces of Kent’s nightmares over the months. 

“Come back to bed,” he says.  

Kent complies with a sigh. They lie in each other’s arms for a while. 

“What are we doing?” Kent asks finally.

“I don’t know,” Nathan admits. “Do you need an answer?”

“Guess not.” 

“What do you want us to be doing?”

“Something less confusing,” Kent says with tiredly. “I feel like I’m helping you cheat.”

“Cheat who?” 

“Yourself, your fucking mental health.” 

The thought of Perry hangs in the air between them. 

“I could love you,” he thinks out loud. Because Nathan can be kind of an idiot. But also because even after all these years, he’s still determined to make other people happy. 

“But you don’t,” Kent reminds him. “And no offense, Nathan, but I really don’t want to be someone’s second choice. Not when I got someone waiting for me back home.” 

He doesn’t want to point out that Jack is a pipe dream at best. No one avoids someone they love like the plague. Not like Jack has to Kent. He thinks about how much he wants to take Kent out of his own bullshit and make him happy. Nathan thinks maybe a part of him is a little in love with Kent. But then again, what kind of bastard would he be if he didn’t care about the guy who’s given so much to make sure he’s ok? 

“What now?” Nathan asks. 

Kent smirks. He kisses Nathan like it’s his last breath. Maybe they’re not in love. Maybe they are. It doesn’t really matter because it’s always been the wrong place at the wrong time. 

“You’re gonna go to therapy, maybe get some depression meds,” Kent says softly. “And you’re gonna get better. Because you deserve to be happy, Nathan.” 

Nathan kisses him, hoping Kent hears exactly what he’s trying to say. 

_ I’m sorry. You deserve to be happy too.  _

_/.\\_ 

_ Nearly three minutes gone in the second. Aces down by one. Coming off the board, what a move by Chopra. Now to the net—wide open—he scores!     _

_/.\\_ 

Perry hates going to practice on days when they feel dysphoric. It’s like willingly deciding to trudge through suffocating white cishet fuckery while performing it adequately for assfucks who don’t matter. 

They sigh as they pull Aces warm up clothing on. At least they don’t have to endure an identity crisis just to get dressed. Hockey, like any job, comes with it’s uniform. Perry would kill to be able to show up to practice one day in a fucking pencil skirt and crop top. 

But for today, they’ll settle for putting on some brown eyeshadow and hoping, praying, no one notices. They have a hard time stopping at just eyeshadow; so they put on nude lipstick because they can. They’re carpooling to practice with Nathan, who’s already eating breakfast downstairs. When he looks up from his phone he takes a long look at Perry before smiling softly. 

“Hey,” he says. “you look good today.” 

“Really?” Perry asks hesitantly. “You don’t think...they’ll notice?”

Nathan frowns. “Maybe.” 

They nod in resignation. “I’ll go—”

“No, wait,” he says, catching Perry’s hand. “You should wear it anyway.”

Perry huffs. “I want to, but I can’t deal with shitty white boys today.”

He nods, resting his chin in his hand. He tries to push up his glasses with his middle finger despite the fact that he’s wearing contacts right now. Perry bites back a chuckle. 

“You think I have time to put eyeshadow on?”

Perry balks. They check the clock on the microwave. It’s an hour until practice. “Definitely, but —”

“Help me out with that? Please?” 

“Ok,” they agree. 

They run upstairs, grabbing their favorite palette and two different brushes. They tell Nathan to sit up straight. 

“Put your back right against the chair,” Perry instructs as they come down the stairs. 

Nathan listens without complaint. 

Perry dips their flat eyeshadow brush into the same brown eyeshadow they used for theirself earlier. They tap the ferrule of the brush against the side of the palette, knocking off the excess. 

“Close your eyes and relax them. Don’t twitch, got it?”  

Nathan hums in response. 

They lightly apply eyeshadow in a patting motion. They do the same to his right eye. Perry set the flat brush down on the counter, grabbing their small rounded dome brush. 

“What are you doing now?” Nathan asks.

“Blending out the edges of this eyeshadow,” Perry murmurs. “If this was more complicated, I would’ve started with a transition color in your eye crease. I’m just softening the eyeshadow you already have so it stops in the crease. It’s flawless that way.” 

“Cool,”he says, “and it’ll look just like yours?”

“No, I put some gold on the center of my lid,” they admit. “It’s subtle, but cute y’know?”

“You can put some on me.” 

“You sure?”

“Yea, totally,” Nathan assures them. 

Perry washes their hands quickly in the kitchen sink. They dip their finger into the gold eyeshadow, tapping it lightly against the center of Nathan’s eyelids. They step back, offering Nathan their phone with the camera on. 

“What do you think?” they ask nervously.

“I love it,” he says. 

“Really?”

“Yea,” Nathan says easily. “It looks better on you, but I like it.” 

Perry tucks a loose strand of hair behind their ear, trying not to blush. They head to the car after Perry puts their makeup supplies away. 

When they get into the locker room, Perry gapes. Half the guys are wearing makeup. Those who aren’t are in a long line behind Kent, who’s wearing thick black eyeliner on top of mauve eyeshadow. He’s currently applying eyeliner on Carter, who already has teal eyeshadow.

“Ok my mom might suck at makeup,” Carter says. “But I have no fucking clue how you’re this good at eyeliner.” 

“My wife can barely put that shit on,” Skenzy shouts on the other side of the room. “Parse, she wants to know how the fuck you got a triple wing on me.”

“I have the patience of a god,” Kent chirps. “Also, for the record, I went through like—a huge cholo phase when I was younger.” 

“Kent, this line is ridiculous,” Swoops complains.

“You’re just butt hurt that you’re at the end,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. “We’re building morale, remember?”  

Swoops looks over at Perry flashing them a small grin. 

“Yea, you’re right,” Swoops says. “Team’s gotta stick together.”   


	4. Spring

_ An excellent goal by Smith, let’s take a look at it again. He gets Huskins standing still. He fishes for the puck, and has tremendous dexterity, staying with the play. _

_/.\\_ 

2004 

Price isn’t doing his job, again. Marcus made some comments while they were watching tape the night before. They got takeout even though it wasn’t their cheat day. They do that more than either of them would admit. Marcus comes over a lot now. It’s comfortable, domestic. Almost everything that Calvin could hope for. Almost. 

Price doesn’t have a good strategy against the Yotes. The Aces are essentially the joke of the Western Conference. So instead of listening to his bumbling plan about getting in there, Calvin stands up and starts talking. 

“Their third line centerman has a killer slapshot. Their second line right winger is left handed, that’ll trip you up if you’re not careful out there. Their defense is weak, so just get the puck past the blue line.” 

Everyone stares at him bleary eyed except Marcus, who stands up, patting him on the back. 

“You heard him,” Marcus says. “Let’s go play some hockey.” 

Somehow, they win. They really pull it together. Calvin gets a goal in the third period. He and Marcus celly like they just won the Cup. 

Calvin leans back a little bit, wanting to do nothing more than kiss Marcus right there. But they’re in a crowded arena in Arizona, and the world isn’t that nice. When Marcus says he has a date later that night, Calvin is especially glad he didn’t try to make a move. 

_/.\\_ 

2011

When Nathan asked Perry if they wanted to hang out, they’d expected something lowkey. It’s been awhile since they’ve hung out together without the rest of the team. Perry asks what they should wear. Nathan shrugs and smirks. 

“Put your earrings on,” he says. 

“That’s helpful,” Perry grumbles. 

“It’s casual, Per,” Nathan says, nudging them gently. “You’ll have fun, I promise.”

Perry ends up taking a cab with Nathan to some warehouse or something on the edge of town. They put on their earrings and makeup because they can. They’re not at the point where they can just wear whatever in public, which means putting on their softest tank and shorts. When Perry notices the crowd tricking in is decked all the band shirts and black, they briefly kick themselves for not considering fishnets. 

The warehouse is cramped with bodies and eccentric body modifications. Perry is in awe of the tattoos that peak out under different people’s clothing. They notice lots of people in too much makeup and lots of ambiguous gender expressions. It feels like the air has been knocked out of their lungs. A stillness creeps up their spine as Nathan holds their hand, leading them further into the pit. 

Toward the front of the room, everyone’s packed in like sardines. They find refuge in a spot toward stage left, close enough for them to see without being crushed. It’s a simple setup, Perry notes. The stage isn’t more than two feet above the ground. A sheet is simply painted with some sort of crassly drawn angel. Luces de Navidad adorn the sheet. It’s all very serene and surreal. 

They don’t remember the last time something so simple could take their breath away. 

Four people walk on stage as the crowd begins to roar. The frontman isn’t what Perry would expect. They’re not covered in skulls and dripping with black hair dye. Rather, they’re a nerd in thick rimmed glasses with a beard. 

“Hello Las Vegas,” the frontman says. 

The crowd booms. 

“You’ve got a raging cesspool here,” they joke. “You’re halfway to hell already.” 

Perry finds theirself laughing a little too hard. 

“So why don’t we take you all the way tonight?” the frontman says before strumming their guitar in a new tempo. “I could go off the deep end—”

“I could kill all my best friends,” Nathan shouts with about thirty other people around them. 

The music is loud and raucous. It feels as rushed and disjointed as the stage. Perry’s adrenaline is fueled further by the excitement of the crowd. It’s waves of warmth and belonging that they didn’t know was possible to experience.   

_ It’s sad to know that we are not alone in this. And it’s sad to know there’s no honest way out. _

Nathan hasn’t let go of their hand yet. Perry grips his tighter. They don’t talk about shit that they probably should. For now, they can just be whoever they want. That’s a feat in itself. 

“In this life we lead, we could conquer everything,” Nathan sings. “If we could just get the brave to get out of bed in the morning.” 

They laugh. A knot forms in their stomach. Something about they way Nathan says it rings a little too true. Raw like a scab being ripped open. Maybe some things weren’t meant to see the light of day. 

Perry rests their head against Nathan’s shoulder. Who knows what they’d be in the morning. For now, they could just be two bodies reaching out to each other in the darkness. They swallow thickly. Perry thinks they could something really amazing together. 

Someday. 

_/.\\_ 

_ He’s able to hook up with Chopra who steals. Took it away from Hejda. Moving in and—wow! What a play. Right past Garon. _

_/.\\_ 

They get shut out by the Kings. Kent goes home without showering or talking to the press. He barely remembers the drive home. He’s surprised he hasn’t gotten in a car accident with how much he blanks out nowadays. Then again, he’s one of the league’s best players in terms of assists. Maybe it’s just his natural gift to let other people do their thing while trying to not fuck up. Maybe he hadn’t done his job well enough with Jack, and that’s why he overdosed. 

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. 

_ Keep your head down, Kenny. Don’t be stupid.  _

“Easier said than done, Zimms,” Kent says out loud with a shudder. 

_ You can’t play if you drink yourself to death.  _

“What’s the point of playing if you’re not around? You’re hockey. Hockey only makes sense if you’re a part of it.” 

_ Still here, Kenny. Wait for me.  _

“How long?”

He doesn’t get any answers. Of course, he already has one. He needs to make Jack proud. He can’t be proud of a second rate player who can’t keep it together. He needs to win. The Aces need to be the best of the best. 

He climbs into bed without showering. They have optional skate the next day. He shows up and works himself to the bone. He can be better. He knows it. He has to be. No one notices how on edge he is. It feels like he won. He tricked them all into thinking he has he shit together.

It’s exciting. He gets up the next day and does it again — and again.   

_/.\\_ 

_ That was Kent Parson with a spinorama. And then driving it down the ice...past Chipchura and Carey Price.  _

_/.\\_ 

2004 

Marcus puts off renewing his contract with the Aces. Calvin doesn’t know why, but his contract is up in the air for much longer than anyone else’s. Calvin renewed his last year. Because he’s an idiot and thought maybe he had a shot. Maybe he could get Marcus to warm up to him. 

Now, however, nothing is certain. What does he even like about this team? What is there to care about? They didn’t get into the playoffs this year. They pulled their act together enough to not be the worst team in the league, but that’s about it. 

Marcus doesn’t go home for long that summer. He’s in and out of meetings with his agent and management like crazy. He tells Calvin some things here and there about higher pay and subclauses about trading potential. 

“You want a no trade clause?” Calvin asks on day. 

Marcus smirks, shaking his head. “I don’t need to waste time negotiating that. They won’t trade me.”

He doesn’t sound cocky, like a player who knows how valuable he is. He sounds resigned like a person who’s trapped. 

“Do you want to be traded?” Calvin asks. 

Marcus doesn’t say anything, he just keeps his eyes trained on his TV that’s currently playing  _ Everybody Hates Chris _ . That’s answer enough, Calvin thinks. Maybe Marcus has been here so long that he’s just accepted Las Vegas for what is. Calvin doesn’t think he ever could. It’s too loud and sweltering. It’s arid and crowded. It’s nothing like where either of them grew up. Which is when everything clicks for him. 

“The Red Wings would take you,” Calvin says. “Any team would be lucky to have you.” 

Marcus grimaces, glancing briefly at him. His eyes are unreadable. 

He glances back at the screen, sighing. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s not the right time,” Marcus says. “I got used to being around here. If Vegas isn’t kicking me out, I’m not gonna fight them. I just need to make it more bearable.” 

Calvin thinks, not for the first time, that he would do anything to make Marcus happy. But Vegas isn’t doing that for him. 

Calvin thinks he says something about finding someone that makes Marcus happy. 

“Yeah,” Marcus huffs. “I should get on that.” 

Calvin meets a few people Marcus sees over the next few months. They’re all nice, kind. Just the sort of people Marcus deserves to have in his life. None of them stay around for too long. He wonders why, but decides not to think about it too hard. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Perez shoots down the right side to Harris. Harris gets around Bobby Smith looking for a hat trick. He scores! _

_/.\\_ 

2004 

It’s September. The season doesn’t start for another few weeks. Calvin is home playing video games with some of the rookies who have tentatively made it through. He tries not to get attached, because they’re a dime a dozen. Either they’ll end up on the farm team for a while or they’ll end up being disappointments as people. Not that he’s one to talk. But it’s not his job to make them better. 

Marcus texts him asking if he can come over. He never does that, so Calvin calls him immediately. 

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” his voice is strained. “Can I come over?” 

Calvin agrees before hanging up. He tells the boys to head home for the night. He puts on primetime TV as background noise. He grabs popcorn because he doesn’t know what kind of visit it is exactly. But he can tell that Marcus wants a distraction. 

He lets himself in with the key Calvin gave him. Marcus stands awkwardly in front of him for a second before Calvin hugs him anyway. They hug each other tightly for a while. Calvin doesn’t know what’s wrong and he’s scared. Marcus doesn’t crumble like this, not without a reason at least. 

“What’s wrong?” Calvin asks when they’re finally sitting on the couch, the bowl of popcorn between them. 

Marcus bites his lip, not meeting Calvin’s gaze. “Can we just—sit here for a while?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

“Sometimes I wonder why I’m stopping myself from being happy,” Marcus says finally. 

“What do you mean?”   

“I mean, I know what I want,” Marcus says. “I know what’s good for me. I had all the cards on the table. What did I pick? Nothing.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought it would be easier to make it someone else’s decision. I was stupid.” 

“You’re not stupid, Marcus,” Calvin argues. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Marcus smirks. “Thanks.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says, “but you’re going to figure it out.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“Because you’re the kind of person who makes people’s lives better just by being in it,” he says confidently.  _ Because that’s what I love about you, _ is what he doesn’t say. 

Somehow, they end up leaning against each other, dozing off quietly. Calvin thinks he hears Marcus muttering something. 

“Never fall for a Canadian who’s in love with someone else.” 

Maybe he’s imagining things. 


	5. Post-Season

_ Here’s Smith going on a tremendous rush—score! Marcus Smith on the short hand. He has two in the first five minutes!   _

_/.\\_ 

2011

They’re officially in the playoffs. Kent should be so fucking relieved and happy. But he’s not. Victory feels hollow when everyone’s so disjointed. Jeff’s at the back of the group, grumbling about passes and power plays. Kent’s trying very hard to ignore how much Jeff’s been pissing him off lately. 

March in Las Vegas doesn't look much different than October or January or really any month. It’s a perpetual summer of too much or not enough. Kent thinks he could choke on the heat one day, just suffocate and never come back up. The stars are hidden behind miles of light pollution.

Part of him misses winters, and change. He misses feeling like things were headed in a clear and bright direction. Maybe that’s what he gets for putting all his hopes and dreams into a singular idea. He’d never stopped to consider what life after the draft would really mean. 

The rest of him thinks if he ever feels the kind of cold that chills his bones ever again, it’ll be too soon. He thanks every conceivable deity out there that Quebec’s team moved to Colorado. He doesn’t think he could stomach going back to the province. It’s too marred in memories of tangled limbs and soft lips that make him think of bright white bathroom tiles and little blue pills. 

Montreal is death, and Las Vegas is the purgatory they sent Kent to by accident.    
Kent remembers Jack’s smile when they won the Memorial Cup. That feels like a lifetime ago. He feels worn and different; he can barely recognize who he is anymore. He thinks he might puke. 

Jeff says something under his breath about unsuccessful passes. Kent feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“What the fuck did you say?” Kent hisses. 

Jeff narrows his eyes, shrugging. 

“No, say it again, louder.” 

“I said, I could’ve made that goal if you’d passed faster,” Jeff growls. 

Kent sees white. 

“Who gave you the fucking right to pass judgement on every fucking thing I do!?” He shouts. “When was the last time you treated me like a fucking person instead of a mistake? I’m fucking sick of making myself sick trying to please you.” 

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Kent runs to his car. He gets in and drives until he’s miles out of the city. He finds a rest stop halfway to the Grand Canyon. He turns the radio up. He sobs until he can’t breathe anymore. At least, that’s how he remembers himself passing out.   

_/.\\_ 

_ The Aces have to work quickly. They win the draw... Troy taps it into the corner. Sends it from his knees—score!   _

_/.\\_ 

2004 

They make the announcement the day before the season opener. McCallister isn’t coming back due to extenuating family circumstances and is officially retiring. They name Calvin as the newest captain of the Las Vegas Aces. He doesn’t believe it. He never expected to be captain in a million years. But he’s happy. His parents will be the talk of the town for months. 

A group of guys cheer, and someone mentions going to their favorite bar. There’s a flurry of shouts and hugs and words of congratulations. Everyone looks excited for him. He’s regained any popularity he lost last season by being the voice of reason. 

Calvin barely has a moment to breathe, or think. When he’s finally able to, he’s two drinks in and looking everywhere for Marcus. He isn’t sure Marcus even went with them. 

He’s nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s the booze, but he decides that there’s somewhere else he’d rather be. Somewhere he would always prefer to be. 

He takes a cab back to Marcus’ place. He knocks the door loudly. He can hear footsteps on the other side. 

“What do you want?” Marcus says without opening the door.

“You weren’t at the bar,” he says. “I came to get you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m just tired, alright?”

“For fuck’s sake, Marcus, would you just let me in?” 

Marcus throws the door open. “Why, so you can take my house? You want my wardrobe too?” 

Calvin pushes past him into the living room. “What are you talking about?” 

“The C,” Marcus says. “They told me I’d get it after McCallister, and then they gave it to you.”

Calvin balks at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? When did that happen?”

“Over the summer when I threatened not to re-sign,” he says tensely.  

“That's it?” Calvin’s voice booms. He spent weeks worrying because Marcus was fighting over the captaincy? “That's why it took you a fucking month to re-sign?” 

“Don't give me that tone,” Marcus warns quietly. “I’m younger. I was their first rookie. I won a fucking Calder and Norris. My jersey sales keep this fucking team afloat.” 

“You think I don't know that?” Calvin shouts. “You don't think I know the only reason we stand a fucks chance in hell out there is because of you?” 

Marcus paces, throwing his hands in the air. “Then why’d you take the C, Calvin? Why?”

“They didn't ask me,” he insists. “They told me the same time they told everyone else. What was I supposed to do?” 

“You could've told them I deserved it more,” Marcus says. “You could've said no.” 

Calvin doesn't say anything for a moment. Deep down, he knows Marcus is right. So why didn't he?

“Just admit it,” Marcus insists. “Admit that you’ll always be that guy, West.” 

Calvin stares incredulously. “What guy?” 

“The one who thrives off the shit hockey culture pulls,” he says simply. 

“No,” Calvin snaps. “That's not fucking fair, Marcus.” 

“Life isn't—”

“Fair. I know. I fucking know that,” he says as he waves his hands frantically. “You know what else isn't fair? You pushing me away every goddamn time things are almost ok. You don't want me? Fine. But stop picking me apart like a fucking science experiment.”

He was done pretending they weren’t circling each other. 

“Fuck you,” Marcus seethes. “I've been wanting you for fucking years. Don’t act like you didn't notice!”

“You never told me!” 

“You acted straighter than bamboo,” Marcus says.

“You’re the one dating.”

“Only because you’re unavailable.”

“He dumped me over a year ago!” Calvin says. 

“You could've fucking told me! I'm not a mind reader.” 

“Why else would I stay in with you every goddamn night?!” 

“Because I'm boring and you were tied down!” Marcus shouts. 

“Because I love you, you asshole!” 

Marcus freezes. Calvin gapes. They stare at each other for a second. Calvin doesn't hold back this time. His lips are on Marcus’. It isn’t soft and romantic. It’s hard, fierce and rushed like the Colorado river. Marcus’ hands find his hips, pulling him closer. Calvin's hands finds his ass. Marcus leads him backwards in the direction of the couch. When the couch bumps against the back of his knees, Marcus falls, taking Calvin with him. Calvin sucks his neck for a minute, enjoying the soft sound of whimpers underneath him. 

He pulls back, staring at the soft bedroom eyes Marcus is giving him. He goes down for another kiss. This time it’s gentler, yet more passionate. It feels like a fire being lit in his mouth that slides down his throat — engulfing him in flames before pooling in his stomach.   

He feels his pants getting slipped off as he unbuttons Marcus’. There’s nothing but the thin fabric of their briefs separating them. Their hips find a perfect rhythm, rutting against each other to create more friction. Calvin hasn’t been this on edge in years. He loses himself as his tongue slides deeper into Marcus’ mouth. 

“I’ll make you feel so good you won’t walk straight for a week,” Calvin murmurs. 

Suddenly, Marcus pushes him back.  

“Get out,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“I'm not a puck bunny, Calvin,” he says. “I can't — I  _ won't  _ be that for you.” 

Calvin tries to protest, but Marcus is pointing furiously toward the door. He runs out with his jeans in his hand. He doesn't realize until he's shut the front door behind him that he left his shoes inside. He sits down on the steps of the front porch. 

Just as well, he wasn't about to go anywhere tonight. 

_/.\\_ 

2011

Someone knocks on his bedroom door before entering **.** Jeff figures whoever it is, they can either wait or leave.

“We need to talk,” Goose says after a minute. 

“Kinda busy right now,” Jeff tells him. 

“Doing what?”

“Wat—”

“Watching tape, got it,” Goose interrupts. 

Jeff scowls, refusing to pause the footage on his laptop. “What do you want?”

In the corner of his eye, he can see Goose trying to shrug casually. “Thought I’d hang out with my best friend. You haven’t seen him have you? He’s like your height, dark hair, has the worst taste in music?”

“Fuck off, Nathan,” he says. “What’s your point?”

“I don’t know, giant dick,” Goose deadpans. “It’s like Swoops disappeared during the off season, and every time I try to figure out what the fuck happened, you show up.” 

“If you’re here just to give me shit you can knock that out right now, ok? I don’t need an inspirational speech on teamwork or whatever. I’m trying to help us get our shit together.” 

Jeff expects that to be it.

But instead, Goose says, “See? I told you.” 

Jeff is about to ask what the fuck he’s talking about when—  

“I see it, but I still can’t believe it,” Trish says. 

Jeff looks up. Trish is standing with her arms crossed. She looks hilarious, almost a foot shorter than Goose and looking twice as pissed. Jeff would laugh if it weren’t for the fact that he was suddenly terrified. 

“Mom, what’re you doing here?”

“Your lovely friend Nathan said you were — can I quote you?”

“Of course,” he says with a smug grin.

“Being a whiny little asshole,” Trish says. 

Jeff gapes at him. “You did not say that to my mom.”

“Hey, she called you a stubborn fucker.” 

Jeff scowls. “Ok, whatever—”

“No, not whatever, Jeffery Charles,” Trish snaps. She looks up at Goose with a pleasant smirk. “Thank you, Nathan, I think I can take it from here.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, cautiously eyeing both of them. “I’ll be downstairs... just in case.” 

He shuts the door behind him. Trish turns back to Jeff, glaring at him in full force. 

“Mom—”

“Jeffery Charles, we will get to your behavior after you hug me,” she orders.

The blood drains from his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

She slips off her sandals, coming over to the bed. “C’mon, move this shit.”

“But I was working,” Jeff whines. 

She looks over at the screen. “Gimme the Bruins’ PK.” 

“82.64 percent,” he recalls. “That’s .66 over the league average right now.”

“If I asked you how many points number 19 has?” 

“Twenty two.” 

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, haven’t you?”

Jeff shrugs. With anyone else, he might play dumb. Trish moves his stuff to his desk, despite his protests. She sits down next to him, pulling him into her chest. He shudders, holding her tightly. 

“You’re tired,” she says sympathetically. “I can see those circles under your eyes.” 

“I’m trying my best,” Jeff insists. 

“Baby, I’ve been watching your games,” she murmurs. “You’re one of the best damn players this league has ever seen.”

“Yeah?”

She cards a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’re dynamite out there.” She sighs. 

“What?” 

“Remember when you were fifteen? And Joshy and I took to you to Coney Island before you shipped out for Michigan?” 

“Yeah...” Jeff says warily. 

“What’d I make you promise?”

“Something about not being a dick?” he guesses. 

“Don’t get caught up in momentary fame and forget the people you love,” Trish says. “Baby, I love you to tears. But if everything Nathan said was true, I’m surprised you still have friends.” 

“What’d he tell you?”

“You don’t talk to anyone anymore, and when you do, it’s to fight.” 

Jeff nods, relaxing further against her. “I guess.” 

“He said you’ve been fighting a lot with Kent,” she says. 

“— Kinda,” he admits reluctantly. “I guess…”

“Jeffery, you’re not your father,” Trish says. 

Jeff tenses. “He’s not my father.”

“He raised you.”

“You raised me, and he’s a pretentious ass,” he argues. 

“Baby, whatever you want to call him, he was there... more than your mother.”

“Natalie,” he corrects. 

“Baby, stop avoiding the conversation.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he says with a frustrated groan. He inhales the scent of her floral perfume, wishing they were back in Trish’s garden at home instead of stuck in Vegas talking about his shitty childhood. “I’m doing this for them.”

“Winning isn’t everything,” she reminds him. 

“Yeah? Well maybe if we won Carter and Goose could be proud of themselves. Smithy, West, and Perry wouldn’t have to hide as much. Kent wouldn’t have to live in Zimmermann’s fucking shadow for the rest of his life —”

“There’s a lot of shit wrong with this league, baby,” she stops him. “Winning the Stanley Cup won’t fix all of that.”

“But it’s a start,” he rasps. “I can do that much, so I should, right? I owe them that much.”

“What you owe them is your time and love. Hockey’s just a job. But your friends? They’re real people. They need you to give back what you take.” Trish inhales deeply. She kisses his forehead. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” he asks. 

“Letting that sniveling asshole teach you that careers mean love,” she says. “They don’t, baby. Being happy and fulfilled is important. But they don’t mean shit if you have to step on people’s backs to get there.” 

Jeff feels his cheeks heat up. He’s angry and ashamed of himself. He’s just like his father. That’s the last thing he ever wanted. 

Because she knows him, Trish adds, “You’re such a good man, Jeff. You’re just a little lost right now.” 

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispers.

She cups his chin, kissing his cheek tenderly. “Hey, don’t apologize to me. There’s plenty of people who miss you.” 

He thinks about the way Kent looks at him when they’re fighting—like he’s looking at someone who isn’t Jeff. Maybe that would be a relief to some people, the thought that maybe it isn’t their fault. But for him, it’s this freight train epiphany where maybe he’s been hurting someone deeper than anyone should be able to take. 

Trish makes him leave the house for a while. They find a good taco place on the outskirts of town. He doesn’t watch tape for the rest of the day. Trish keeps him busy for the rest of the week. When he drops her off at the airport, she makes him promise something.

“Don’t push people away,” she says sternly. “You are loved, Jeffery Charles. You have to remember that.” 

“Promise,” he murmurs, hugging her tightly. 

“Call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I will,” he promises. “Love you, Mom.”

She squeezes him a little tighter. He doesn’t think that word will ever lose its novelty. It reminds him that a few words can hold so much weight. He drives back to the house thinking about Kent, and how much shit they’ve piled on each other. Jeff can’t find him anywhere. He wonders when the last time they really talked was. 

He swallows a lump in his throat. The technical answer is two days. But when he checks his phone, their last selfie is from almost a year ago. His heart sinks. Something has to give. Jeff thinks for once, that should be him. 

_/.\\_ 

2004 

He falls asleep leaning against the post of Marcus’ front porch. Calvin’s jerked awake by the sound of the front door slamming behind him. He looks up at Marcus, who’s holding one of his Aunt Sheryl’s blankets. 

“What are you doing here still?” Marcus asks quietly. 

Calvin shrugs, turning to look at the horizon. He doesn’t know what time it is, but the moon is setting again. 

“Left my shoes inside,” he mumbles.

“You could’ve called a cab,” Marcus says. 

“Yeah, I forgot something else.” 

“What?” 

“You,” he says simply. 

Marcus sits two steps above Calvin. He’s close enough that their knees could touch, but they don’t.

Calvin clears his throat. “I wasn’t here to fuck you. That’s not what this was about.”

“Then what was it?”

“I meant it when I said I love you.” He meets Marcus’ stony gaze. “I’m in love with you, Marcus Smith.” 

Marcus bites his lip, nodding his head slowly. 

“Are you going to say something?”

“Give me a minute,” he says, his voice rapsing. 

They sit like that. Calvin thinks he could jump out of his skin in a moment’s notice. His stomach is churning. He thinks about all the times Marcus told him to be better. That things weren’t always about him. So, instead of waiting to listen, he speaks. 

“I’m sorry,” Calvin says slowly. “I should’ve said something to Price about being captain. Just like I should’ve asked you out months ago. You weren’t supposed to guess. I should’ve told you I love you a long time ago.”

Marcus nods, scooting down to the same step as Calvin. 

“I don’t care if you have feelings for me,” he continues. “I mean, I do. I want to know. But it doesn’t matter. That changes nothing, eh? We’re still a team. You’re still my best friend. You don’t owe me anything.” 

He hears a heavy sigh next to him. He feels the weight of Sheryl’s blanket on his shoulder. He feels Marcus slide next to him. 

“I’m so mad at you right now,” Marcus whispers. “I’m so mad at myself.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t re-sign because they promised me the C,” he explains. “I re-signed because I’m an idiot and thought ‘maybe he’ll want me back at some point’.”

And because he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, he asks, “Who?”

“You,” Marcus says. 

Calvin’s breath catches in his throat. He swallows harshly. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to make you happy.” 

Marcus chuckles. Calvin feels something wet on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around Marcus’ shoulders, pulling him closer. 

“You have a funny way of showing that sometimes,” Marcus chirps.

“I know,” Calvin admits. “Someone once told me to be better. Guess I still have a ways to go.”

“Better isn’t a finish line,” Marcus says. “It’s a journey.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re a lot farther than you used to be.” 

Calvin grins. 

Marcus huffs. “I meant what I said, Calvin. I can’t be a puck bunny. I love you too fucking much to be a quick fuck.”

“You’re not,” he insists. “You’re more. You’ve always been more.”

“You say that now—”

“And I’ll mean it til the day I die,” he swears. “I want to be with you, Marcus. But I’ll take whatever you can give me.” 

Marcus lifts his head from Calvin’s shoulder. He tilts his head slightly. 

“Say it again,” Marcus whispers. “Say it—so I know I wasn’t hearing things.” 

Calvin stares Marcus right in the eyes; they’re red rimmed and wet. It’s not the first time he’s thought he’d do anything to make sure Marcus never got hurt ever again. 

“I love you,” Calvin says. “I want to be with you.” 

“Again.”

“I love you.” Calvin brings a hand to caress Marcus’ chin. “I love you. I love you. I love you, and only you.” 

“Ok,” Marcus rasps. 

“Ok?” 

“I love you, too,” he says. “I want to be with you.” 

Calvin tentatively leans closer. They’re staring at each other. Marcus slowly closes his eyes as he closes the gap between their lips. Calvin follows suit. This time, their kiss is a pool of swirling emotions. They’re colliding with bursts of hope, anxiety, anticipation, and excitement. Calvin thinks this must be what winning a Stanley Cup feels like. 

He hopes someday he knows what both feel like at the same time. 

_/.\\_ 

2011

Calvin sets a plate of eggs and toast in front of Kent. Marcus watches quietly from the corner of his eye, pretending to be reading some article on his phone. Kent mumbles thanks. He picks at the food slowly with his fork, not looking away from his phone. Calvin sits down at the table next to Marcus, handing him his own plate. 

They exchange glances before turning back to Kent. They’d talked about this. They have a plan, so hopefully, this intervention (for a lack of a better word) won’t end terribly. Marcus eats slowly, not taking his eyes off Kent. Kent keeps breaking up his food into smaller and smaller pieces. But still, he doesn’t take a single bite. 

Marcus swallows thickly. He nudges Calvin’s knee.  _ Might as well rip the bandaid off _ , he thinks to himself. 

“Parse, eat your breakfast,” Calvin says. 

“I am.” 

“You haven’t started yet,” Marcus points out. 

Kent stiffens, glancing up from his phone. There’s this flash of panic in his eyes before a gentle smirk crosses his face. Marcus wonders how many times he’s gotten away with feigning happiness. He kicks himself a bit, knowing he’s probably believed some of the lies Kent’s fed them. 

“Sorry,” Kent says with a shrug, “just a little distracted.” 

“That’s fine,” Marcus assures him. “C’mon, eat.” 

Kent frowns. “Sure, uh, I’m probably gonna be awhile. You guys don’t need to wait up for me.” 

“Parse—” Calvin growls.

Marcus puts a hand on his shoulder. Calvin sighs, letting him take over. 

“You’re going to eat everything on that plate, Kent,” Marcus commands. “No throwing it out. No putting it in the garbage disposal or pawning it off on Jeff. You’re eating it, in front of us, right now.”

Kent narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“If you don’t, we’re benching you,” Calvin says. 

“What? For how long?”

“The rest of playoffs,” Marcus says. 

Kent balks. “What?”

“You heard him, Kent,” Calvin says. “We’re not letting you play like this.” 

Marcus winces. This is why they talked about a script. 

“Like what?” Kent snaps. “I’m fine, guys, ok? It’s just fucking breakfast.”

“You’re not,” Marcus says as he rubs his temple. “Kent, you’re skin and bones.”

“I have plenty of muscle.”

Marcus has to stop himself from snorting. “You’re skinnier than when you got drafted. Those muscles? They’re running on empty.”

“You don’t kn—”

“Can’t lie to us, bud,” Calvin interjects. “We’re not blind.” 

Kent bristles. He scrubs his face. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry?” 

Marcus gapes. “No, of course not. We’re not here to point fingers—”  

“Then what’s the issue?” he interrupts. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Calvin and Marcus say. 

“Either you bulk up, or you pack it in for the season,” Marcus says firmly. “I’m not sending you back to your mom in a body bag.”

“That won’t happen—”

“When was the last time you ate a real meal?” Calvin asks. 

Kent flinches. He clasps his hands together solemnly. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t expect us to let you play when you’re ready to drop dead after every game,” Marcus argues. “That isn’t fair to you or the team.” 

Kent mumbles something incomprehensible. He clenches his fist so tightly his knuckles turn white. He won’t look at them. 

“What was that?” Calvin asks.  

He gets up and pushes his chair back from the table. Marcus gets up to stop him. Kent rushes at him. He half expects Kent to punch him in the face. But then he has his arms full of a nineteen year old sobbing on him. Marcus shushes him, squeezing him tightly. 

“Don’t take hockey away from me,” Kent stammers. “It’s the only thing I have left.” 

Marcus would love nothing more than to calm his worries and tell him that everything’s going to be ok. But if there’s one thing Vegas has taught him, it’s that nothing is ever simple where the NHL is concerned. They’re in a business, and Marcus can’t protect him from that. He can try, though. 

“You’re not alone,” Calvin says as he stands up. He hugs them both, squishing Kent in between them. “Not in a shithole like this, anyway,” Calvin amends. 

Kent chuckles through sobs. 

“We’ll figure it out ok?” Marcus says quietly. “But you gotta meet us halfway, alright?” 

“Ok,” he agrees, clutching Marcus a little tighter. 

“It’s ok to need help, Kent,” Marcus says. “You’re a giver. Let us give you some of that love back.”  

Marcus feels his shirt getting wet as Kent quietly gasps. He thinks about the way Kent’s fought to get this far and stay afloat. But it isn’t enough, and his heart breaks a little. He doesn’t notice the tears running down his face until Calvin’s kissing the corner of his eye. He chuckles softly. 

This team has a long way to go before it’s great. But it’s leagues above where it was when they started. That gives Marcus hope. 

_/.\\_ 

Kent wakes up at three AM feeling restless. The first game of the playoffs is the next night. Who knows how that’s going to turn out. He thinks he was in the middle of a nightmare about Jack. He can’t remember for sure because it was a blur of frantic shouts and muffled screams. He isn’t sure what to make of anything anymore. 

Most things are a blur of doing what he’s told when he’s told to. He eats because West is almost always watching. It’s easier than talking about shit. Maybe that gets him back into a habit of living. It’s not perfect, but Kent’s never pretended to be more than a hot mess. 

He grabs his comforter and trudges down the stairs, quietly turning the television on and muting the sound. He changes it to some late night marathon of  _ Cheers _ . He wraps himself in his comforter, using the armrest of the couch as a pillow. 

Kent’s exhausted, to say the least. It’s been a long season, and all he wants is for it to be over. But maybe, if he keeps holding on, things will work out. The team will make it far enough in the finals, and people will remember that the Aces are more than a second rate team stuck in the middle of the desert. If he’s lucky, he’ll go home with a conference title and stories to tell. 

If he’s really lucky, he’ll get his shit together enough to see Jack. They’ll talk, kiss, and cry. It’ll be good. They’ll figure out how to be from now on. As long as Jack’s happy, Kent can take whatever. 

He buries his face in the blanket, trembling. He’s sick of feeling like a failure. He’s sick of feeling like an idiot for caring too much if Nathan’s ok. He’s sick of worrying every goddamn second if Jack’s ok. He’s sick of hoping Jeff doesn’t hate him. That ship sailed. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks he should learn to love himself or something. 

Kent hears some thumping over the soft of his muffled sobs. 

“Hey,” he imagines Jack saying. “What’s wrong?”

Because Kent knows this won’t matter in the morning, he goes with honesty. “I miss you so much I think I’ll explode.” 

“I’m right here.” 

“No you’re not,” Kent insists.

He hears a sigh. A weight shifts next to him, but he thinks nothing of it. He leans into a phantom touch of something caressing his cheek softly. A hand, his mind concludes somewhat illogically. 

“I’m sorry,” ‘Jack’ says. “I didn’t mean to put you through this.” 

Kent hiccups, tears shedding a little faster. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, I fucked up,” he insists. “I got so caught up in not being my dad that I—”

“You’re nothing like him,” Kent says. “You’re better. So fucking better.” 

He hears a snort. “Thanks, that means a lot.” 

Kent laugh, choking slightly. 

“Kenny?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to push you away.” 

“I know,” he says before swallowing some bile in his throat. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Not if it means hurting you,” ‘Jack’ snaps. “I never want to make you feel like shit ever again.” 

“Shut up and just love me, ok? Can you do that?”

There’s a strangled sound, and Kent thinks maybe someone found him talking to himself. And then he’s being pushed slightly against the back of couch. Arms are winding around him. Suddenly, his face is buried in someone’s shoulder. This person doesn’t smell like cold sweat and cinnamon. They remind him of saltwater and fresh pine. Their grip isn’t tentative and reserved; it’s fierce and comforting that sends a wave of grief down his spine. 

It feels nothing like Jack. 

“Jeff?” he asks fearfully.

“Yeah?” 

“Nothing,” he says. 

“No, c’mon,” Jeff squeezes him a little tighter. “What’s up?”

“I’m just — really glad you’re here.”   

“Me too, pal,” he whispers. “I gotcha. Everything’s gonna be alright.” 

For what it’s worth, Kent believes him.

 _/.\\_ 

_ This is Parson. Settles it down the away from Boychuck back to Troy and drive—sending it straight back to Elias Nilsson.  _

…

_ Took a crazy bouncing right to Troy. Troy dropped it back to Harris. Harris with the drive—past Niemi!  _

…

_ Perez and Marleau, the two of them go to the boards...he’s roughed up by Marleau a little bit, but jams the puck back to Chopra. Chopra moves it up center ice to Troy. Troy to Parson met by Huskins. Drops it back to Harris who flicks it over to Harris. Harris shoots—scores!   _

_/.\\_ 

Perry and Carter’s birthdays are within a week of each other. They celebrate together after they beat San Jose. West doesn’t let them drink... much. Carter learns three things that night. One, that Smithy and West are disgustingly cute when they think no one’s watching. Two, that Parse is the same level of impulsive sober as he is drunk. Which means Swoops has to talk him out of going to a tattoo parlor. Three, that jumping into a pool after two shots of tequila feels weird. 

Carter wakes up the next morning only slightly groggy. He passed out on West’s couch, apparently. His clothes are definitely borrowed, judging by the Princeton shirt he’s wearing. Carter smells eggs and chorizo, and his stomach growls. Someone snickers behind him. 

He sits up, frowning when Kent sets a plate in front of him on the coffee table. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Carter chirps. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Eh, no worries,” Kent says nonchalantly. “Anything for the boy who lived.”

Carter balks. “What?” 

“Last night, remember?” Kent smirks. “Goose, like, chirped you about not having a nickname. Swoops called you a fucking wizard, and then—”

Carter groans, suddenly remembering why he’d jumped into the pool. 

“Please tell me you didn’t film me shouting ‘I’m Harry Potter motherfuckers’ while jumping into the fucking pool,” he says.

Kent chuckles. “You know I did.”

Carter buries his face in his hands. Kent pats his back sympathetically. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Kent says. “I won’t post it unless we win the Cup.” 

Carter glares at him. “You’re bluffing.” 

Kent smirks harder. “Nope.”

“You’re evil.”

“Evil doesn’t make you breakfast.”

“You’re a dick,” Carter amends. 

Kent sits down next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. Happy birthday, Carter.” 

Carter chuckles in spite of his aggravation. He’s lucky to have a team like this.  

_/.\\_ 

_ Welcome back to game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, brought to you by Toyota. It might be ninety degrees out in the hot Nevada desert, but everyone inside the T-Mobile Arena is bundled up and ready for this exciting conclusion to the series.  _

_ It’s neck and neck for the Las Vegas Aces and the Boston Bruins. Bruins took the last game with one in double overtime to tie up the set score. Can they keep that momentum up and claim their first since 1972? Let’s find out right now as we take to center ice for the first puck drop of the evening.  _

…

_ Arniel slips past Harris. He’s met by Smith—excellent stick check, he passes back to Harris who rushes back down center ice. Harris to Troy. Troy gets heat from McQuaid...spinorama—he doesn’t hesitate as he shoots to the corner pocket and Parson’s already there...he taps it in! The Aces score!    _

...

_ Kelly checks Parson once again. He hasn’t been letting up today—oh, and a fight is breaking out between Parson and Kelly! Refs are pulling them apart.  _

…

_ Chopra intercepts Seguin’s pass, flicking it well past the blue line. Parson gets there before Stuart. Parson to Harris—Harris checked by Kaberle. Loses possession of the puck. _

…

_ The score is tied two two with five minutes left in the double overtime. West battles it out with Lucic. Booya to Smith, he doesn’t hesitate, working his way into Bruins territory. Smith to Parson. Parson—who will lead the rush to center ice. He shoots it up to Troy to Harris—Harris drops back to Smith. He scores! The Las Vegas Aces have won the Stanley Cup!      _

_/.\\_ 

Marcus doesn’t realize the game is over until Carter and Kent are slamming into him for a celly. Troy’s there next with elated shouts. There’s more people swarming all around him. It feels surreal. He can’t actually process that they just won the Stanley Cup.  _ He _ just won the Stanley Cup.  

He doesn’t feel twenty nine. Marcus feels eighteen getting drafted, wondering how he got drafted third overall and as the first rookie for a brand new team. Of course, his rose colored glasses are worn and dingy at this point.

He can hardly hear over the screams of thousands of Aces fans screaming in the stands. Somehow, he finds Calvin among the swarm of hockey players. They crush each other in a hug, and time slows. They worked through hell and back to get here—together. Marcus would give anything to be able to kiss this man right here and now.  

Instead, he files behind Calvin to shake hands with the Bruins. He gives sincere thanks and congratulations to their opponents because he knows what that disappointment feels like. Adrenaline is still thrumming in his heart. Marcus is in awe of this moment. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the arena announcer’s voice booms overhead. “Please direct your attention to center ice for the presentation of the Conn Smythe trophy to the most valuable player of the 2011 Stanley Cup Playoffs.”

Commissioner Bettman strolls down a red carpet the ice crew set up quickly after the game. 

“The Conn Smythe trophy goes to the most valuable player of the in the playoffs,” Bettman explains into the microphone. “The unanimous selection—Marcus Smith.” 

Marcus gapes. He’s pretty sure Calvin has to nudge him forward. He skates forward, skating hands with Bettman before their press photo. Marcus puts on his best smile because he knows his dads will frame it somewhere in their house...and send email it to everyone they know. He might as well express his sheer joy. 

The arena announcer makes some comment about how much he played the final game. At least thirty minutes, he knows that for sure. But he’d rather not think about how tired his muscles feel. He skates back to his team. He gets a lot of claps on the back from his teammates. Maybe there are way too many assholes on the Aces for him to care about. But his rookies, his boys, smile at him brighter than the sun.  

Marcus counts that as its own victory. 

“And now ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says. “The Stanley Cup.”

The Cup is carried reverently down the rink onto the display table at center ice. Bettman makes some remarks that get the fans excited. He congratulates the admin and coaches as Marcus hands the Smythe trophy over to the staff. 

“And now,” Bettman says, “Captain Calvin West, it’s your honor to hoist the Stanley Cup.” 

The crowd goes wild as Calvin skates forward. He looks back once, eyes meeting Marcus’ softly. Calvin looks guilty, as if this is supposed to be Marcus’ moment instead of his. Maybe it was, but that was all said and done years ago. Since then, they’d built this team up together. Marcus is proud of the man Calvin’s become. 

He smiles softly at Calvin, reassuring him. 

Calvin shakes Bettman’s hand before taking his photo op. He hoists the Cup proudly over his head, shouting in glee as he presents Las Vegas its first championship. Calvin lowers the Cup, kissing it. He hoists it up again, waving it a few times. 

Their eyes lock for a moment. Marcus chuckles to himself as he skates to meet him. Most couples wouldn’t find this romantic. But then again, they aren’t most couples. 

Their hands touch as Marcus grips the Cup. They stare at each other for a beat. Calvin kisses the Cup again before handing it over completely. Marcus kisses it right after. That’s the closest they can get to kissing under the Cup, at least for now. 

Marcus feels like his face will split apart from the sheer force of his smile. The Cup is flying high in his hands. He shakes the Cup emphatically as the stadium’s cheers pour over him. The lights are blinding, and his arms are aching. He thinks he can hear his dad’s shouting somewhere in the distance. Everything is chaotic, but as it should be. 

He made it. After all these years, he finally made it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to polyamorousparson and zombizombi for beta-ing, y'all are the best <3 
> 
>  
> 
> You can listen to the year two playlist [on spotify.](https://open.spotify.com/user/palateens/playlist/1XX9sNWqGXQK7ajdqstMHX?si=vrlu0-e-SxGHioFSdsaONg)


End file.
